


Survivors of War

by RavenHairedPrincess



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anger, Angst, Comfort, Drama, F/M, Forgiveness, Grief/Mourning, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Romance, Severus Snape Lives, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 53,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenHairedPrincess/pseuds/RavenHairedPrincess
Summary: It's no surprise that the war has taken a toll on the residents of Hogwarts. Follow Hermione back for her last year of schooling, and discover how surviving the war has brought out the best in some while bringing out the worst in others. Will anyone be there for those who haven't fared as well to help them along their way? Much to Hermione's dismay, her life keeps intersecting with Professor Snape's."I don't look back though; I'm too much of a coward. I'd rather let my demon swallow me whole than confront my own mistake." -Chapter 12Tags and warnings may change as story progresses.





	1. Storming the Castle

**Author's Note:**

> Anything recognizable belongs to J. K. Rowling. This fiction was written for fun, and no money is being made from it.

Since the war ended, I’ve been trying my best to keep busy. If I am otherwise occupied, my mind does not have time to wander. I do not have time to think of the war, the lives we lost, being tortured, or my parents whose memories I was regrettably unable to restore to their original states. They recall some memories of me, such as my fifth birthday party, taking me to see Disney on ice, and that I was an excellent student. However, they think I am child they babysat a few times. I have come to the decision to leave them to their happy lives, as it is too painful to have them look at me and see no reflection in their eyes of the proud love they had always seen me with. 

The past few months have been dreadful to say the least. There has been a gnawing in the pit of my stomach; an emptiness that sustenance cannot fill. Three weeks ago I felt so numb that I thought I may have died without knowing it. I cut into my skin with a razor and watched the blood seep to the surface of my skin. Harry barged in on me, much to my dismay. He called for Ron at the sight. What a sight it must have been for him too; me standing there in a towel holding a razor with blood dripping down my arm. The boys forced me to go to St. Mungos where I was held on a 72 hour suicide watch. If it hadn’t been for Harry and Ron, the story would have ended up on the front page of the paper. They were worried about me, but I told them there was no need to worry. ‘A momentary lapse in judgment’ I told them. There was some truth in it after all. 

All I wanted was to return to my life. I wanted to move on and never look back, and I needed to start by finishing my 7th year of schooling. I had sent a request to Headmistress McGonagall a month ago, only to be told that she would test me out of 7th year. Come to think of it, that was the same day I had my little field trip to the hospital. 

Now, as I storm up to the gates of my beloved home, Hogwarts, letter from the headmistress in hand, I come to a complete halt. As I glimpse at the castle standing beyond the gate for the first time since the battle, images of ruin flood my mind. It nearly takes my breath away. That annoying gnawing in my stomach grows to the point of being unbearable. I bend over holding myself up by the gate as I try to vomit as far away from my shoes as I possibly can. My vision is blurred by tears, and mucus is gathering in my nose. Still hunched over gasping for air, I hear a familiar voice only a few feet away.

“My sentiments upon seeing you as well, Miss Granger, or is Mrs. Weasley?” mocked the deep voice disdainfully.

My heart feels like it is in a vice. I’m experiencing panic, and the only fluids left in me are urine and tears. Choosing the more dignified of the two options my body is presenting me with, I feel the tears that were welling up in my eyes spill over the rims of my eyelids and fall silently over my cheeks and onto the ground. I hear a derisive scoff, and my panic quickly passes over hurt to feeling anger. I raise my head slowly and glare at him through my wet eyelashes. My place escapes me, and the words come from my mouth as if I were a puppet in someone else’s control, “For once in your life, could you not pounce the second you see someone having a moment of weakness?” I meet his black eyes. His face is expressionless as usual. 

The last time I saw him, he was clinging to life in the shrieking shack. I had rushed back soon after Harry, Ron, and I left him there. He refused to tell anyone how he survived, as did I. I assumed he did not want to tell anyone that I, insufferable know-it-all Granger was the one who saved him. I, on the other hand, did not want to be asked why I saved him when, at the time, I thought he was the cold blooded murderer of Albus Dumbledore. Yes, he was my respected Professor, a brilliant wizard I had once looked up to, and a human being, but I don’t recall thinking any of those things when I went back for him. 

His eyebrow rose as he turned his head to the side slightly to take in my uncharacteristic words. I’d seen that damn eyebrow do that over and over again throughout my school years, but this time I wanted to rip it clean off of his face. It was the only sign of expression on his blank face. It was a representation of his indifference to my feelings, to my pain, to me. I shook my head in disappointment and disgust, not at him, but at the memory of hoping to gain his approval one day. What a fool I had been then. I was naive to think that I could get anyone to like me so long as I tried hard enough. I was also foolish to assume I deserved such kindness. “Well, are you going to let me in, or would you prefer to stare at me a little longer?” I spat at him, realizing I had been lost in my memories of the dark wizard.

“Typical Gryffindor. All bark and no bite. Rude too. No ‘good to see you, glad you’re out of the hospital’,” he said baiting me as he let down the wards and opened the gate.

“Considering the greeting I received, an apology isn’t on the horizon,” I retort storming past him. I begin to walk quickly up toward the castle just becoming aware of the letter now mangled in my fist when long fingers wrap around my arm just above the elbow and spin me around.

“I know why you are here,” he says stepping into my personal space. His scent floods my senses. He smells pleasant. It is subtle but masculine, and it irritates me even more. “If you think you are to return to this school and continue speaking to me as you have been, it will prove to be a regrettable assumption on your part,” he warns me. 

“I never gave you permission to lay your hands on me, Professor,” I say jerking my arm away from him. “Should I return as a student here, and you continue to manhandle me as you’ve just done, it would prove to be a regrettable assumption on your part.” I am positively fuming. I’ve not wanted to be touch since I escaped Malfoy Manor. I watch as the most intimidating man I have ever met, Professor Severus Snape, takes a step back from me in defeat. He looks, dare I say it, apologetic. I suddenly feel as though I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. Perhaps Harry is right. Maybe there is reason to worry about me. Have I become so frightening that even Professor Snape is taken aback by my disposition? I hear him clear his throat, and I finally look away. Simultaneously, we set off toward the castle in silence. 

Wondering why my words seemed to have struck a nerve with him, I recollect Harry telling me about Professor Snape’s father. Quickly, I push away the sensation of guilt that springs to life in my gut. It serves no purpose, after all. I cannot change his past anymore than I can change what I had just said to him. Forward momentum, I tell myself. No looking back. 

We reach the door, and I walk through as he holds it open for me. I head toward the Headmistress’s office without a word to Professor Snape, as I am now focused again on the reason I have come here. I feel exhausted after my exchange with that infuriating man. As the stairs carry me up the tower, I try desperately to smooth out the letter in my hand, which now looks like it’s been through a muggle washing machine; one that leaves clothes smelling like sweat that is. 

The door is open, and I speak as I tentatively walk in, “Headmistress McGonagall. It’s Hermione Granger. I’ve come to speak with you about your letter.” 

She is sitting at her desk writing. “What a pleasure, Miss Granger. Please, have a seat,” she says to me gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk. “I was just thinking about you. I thought it odd that I hadn’t heard back from you.”

I take a seat opposite her, “That’s why I’ve come here, Headmistress. You see, as delighted as I was to hear that you think me capable of testing out of 7th year, I would rather complete it properly.”

She waves a hand at me, “Professor is just fine, dear. Forgive me. I just thought that with all that’s gone on, you would be eager to get on with your life.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Mr. Potter told me what happened over the summer, about your visit to St. Mungos. I’m more than a bit worried about you returning to this school given what you’ve been through here.”

I silently curse Harry. “I’m fine Professor. Really. I would just like the opportunity to finish what I started.”

She considers my response for a moment. “Have you seen the article in the Prophet about the Survivors of War Organization?” she asks me holding up the paper. When I shake my head she continues, “It was set up about a month ago for the survivors of war. You write to them about yourself briefly, and they select another person whose experience is similar to pair you up with. It’s completely anonymous, of course. Anyway, you write letters back and forth. They give each pair an owl that has been donated to deliver your correspondence. Most of the owls belonged to those who perished. The point is to have someone you can talk to who is not directly involved in your life.” She looks at me for a moment, but I’m afraid to ask where she is going with this nonsense. “You do this, Miss Granger, and I’ll allow you to return to Hogwarts for your 7th year.”

My heart sinks. This is the absolute worst idea ever. Does she really expect me to pour my heart out to some stranger? I remember Tom Riddle’s diary and gulp audibly. I have no better choice it seems. I cast my eyes to the ground and feel a frown weighing heavily on my face. “If that’s what it takes,” I say quietly. 

“Very well. Bring me your letter of entry explaining your situation, and I’ll send it out tomorrow afternoon. Be sure to sign it, as it’s the first, and they need to make sure they have one to one matches. The rest of the students will arrive tomorrow evening. Ginny Weasley has been made head girl already, so I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep in the common 7th year dorms,” she says to me softly.

“Thank you. That will be wonderful,” I say looking back up at her.

“If it makes any difference at all, Miss Granger, you are not the only one,” she looks at me with a kind expression. When she sees the offended look on my face she presses on, “What I mean to say is that you are not the only one I’ve allowed to return under this stipulation.”

I nod slowly and stand up from the chair. “I’ll go get settled then. Good evening Professor.”

“Miss Granger,” she bids me farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep! You guessed it. Hermione has some serious issues to work though.


	2. Home At Last

I walk the deserted castle to Gryffindor tower, and my mind returns to Professor Snape. Had I not met him at the gate and gotten all of my rage out, it would likely have come out at Professor McGonagall. Now that I know she was hesitant to let me come back, I’m thankful my plans were driven so off course. Walking up the corridor, I reach out and touch the stone wall dragging my finger tips alone its rough surface. As I approach the corner I close my eyes and exhale deeply. I am expecting the wall to disappear under my fingertips at the corners edge, but in my stupidity I don’t open my eyes. I know these halls well and rely on my senses. I should have reached the end of the walk way by now. As I’m about to open my eyes, I hit something hard. 

I’m falling and before I know it, I am flat on my back on the cold stone floor. I groan inwardly at the pain in my rear and in my head. “What did you expect walking around with your eyes closed?” I mumble to myself. 

“It was not I whose eyes were closed, Miss Granger,” a deep baritone voice echoed in the halls. Opening my eyes I see Professor Snape towering over me. I look at him warily as he extends his hand. “May I help you up off of the floor?” he asks acerbically. I roll my eyes and take his proffered hand. It is warmer than I expected it to be. His long thin fingers curl gently around mine like one would hold a flower. As he helps me up, I must have a surprised look on my face as he says, “What? Did you expect me to manhandle you?” A pained look plays at his face. I don’t recall ever seeing that expression on him before, and the guilt I was so quick to push away before flares back up inside of me.

“No, Sir,” I say as I rub the back of my head. Feeling dizzy suddenly, I reach out for the wall. I steady myself as the two Professor Snapes become one again.

“Are you alright, Miss Granger?” he asks me not unkindly. I see lines in his forehead forming.

I say, “fine, thank you. I just need some sleep. If you’ll excuse me, Sir,” and I slowly walk by him to the staircase. I don’t dare look back at him. That was not altogether the most unpleasant exchange we’ve had, and I’d like to keep it that way. 

Finally, I reach the Gryffindor common room. A smile graces my face for the first time in several months. I’m home. I’m where I belong. I light a fire and curl up with a blanket on the couch. My bargain with Professor McGonagall comes to my mind, but my train of thought is interrupted by Winky, the house elf. 

“Winky has come to see if you are hungry, Miss,” she squeaks at me. I shake my head. The little elf approaches and extends her hand to me. “Professor Snape asks Winky to deliver this to Miss,” she says as I take the phial with a shimmery blue potion inside. It’s obviously a headache relief potion, though there are no markings on it. I quickly unstopper and drink it, as my head is killing me. I use my wand to clean the phial before handing it back to Winky. The heaviness in my skull sinks to a solid mass of regret in my chest. 

“Winky, will you tell Professor Snape,” I pause to gather my thoughts, “tell him that as usual, he was right, and that I am already regretting my previous disposition.” The little elf looks at me strangely but nods and disapparates. I am left alone to return to my thoughts on that entry letter. I go over to one of the desks and rummage around for a quill and parchment.

Nearly an hour later I have several failed attempts littering the bottom of the fireplace in the form of ash. I can’t lie. I just don’t have it in me. I also cannot tell the truth because it hurts too much. Even admitting that to myself is painful. I set out in what is to be my last attempt at this blasted letter.

To Whom It May Concern,  
I do not want to be paired with anyone. This is merely me holding up my end of a bargain to get what I want in return. I am only willing to put up with this sham because what I am to receive in return is something I hold in the highest of regards. If you must select a match, please do not pair me with an unintelligent being as it will not go well. If such a thing were to happen, I may find time in my day to write a scathing critique of your services to the Daily Prophet.  
Sincerely,  
Hermione Jean Granger

I sigh and pull the blanket over me as I lay down on the couch in front of the fire. I watch the flames dance as if they are cheerful party-goers teasing and flirting with each other. I am lonely. I’m angry at the world, and I don’t even know why. Frustrated with myself, I roll over turning my back to the raging party. How can one be lonely and not in the mood for company at the same time? 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I wake late in the morning the next day. Winky appears offering me breakfast, which I politely refuse. I give her the letter to give to Professor McGonagall, so I can get on about having my belonging brought to me. While taking a walk around the lake for fresh air, I see Hagrid off in the distance but am careful to avoid him. I’m not ready for all the greetings just yet. Around lunch time I wander into the kitchens and make myself a sandwich after a brief argument with the elves. I spend the rest of the afternoon with my thoughts loitering in the halls.

Feeling uneasy, I wait in a corridor off the entrance hall until most of the returning students gather and spill into the great hall. The opportunity allows me to blend in discreetly with the students, as if I had been there on the train with them. I am nearly knocked off balance as a red haired girl embraces me. I cringe at the contact, and realize I had forgotten to write to anyone to let them know I was going to be allowed to stay. 

“I’m so happy to see you,” Ginny smiled at me. “I was worried. Why didn’t you write?”

“It was only one day really. You would have hardly gotten my owl before you boarded the train. I wanted to surprise you!” I lie ashamed of myself. I sit down to dinner with my fellow Gryffindors, and as I watch the 1st years being sorted, I recall how nervous I was under that hat. I push the food on my plate around to give the illusion I am engaging in this dining experience we are expected to enjoy. Ginny is talking to me. I haven’t a clue what she is on about. I smile and nod every so often, and it seems to keep her from noticing I haven’t said a word since we sat down. 

I look up at the staff table and see Professor McGonagall talking to Professor Flitwick. My eyes graze the rest of the staff but stop when they meet Professor Snape’s. Professor McGonagall said he would be returning to the post of Potions Master. My mind drifts back to the feel of my hand in his. What an odd experience that was, to be touched with such delicacy by such a hard being. After his life was plaster all over the paper, my heart ached for him deeply. I felt unspeakable pain for him, and it left me far worse for wear. Here I am, supposedly broken, and I haven’t a fraction of the pain he has suffered through. This must not be an easy day for him either. We are still looking at each other. Is he wondering what I’m thinking as I am him? Ginny’s voice is growing louder next to me. It’s a bit annoying, actually.

“HERMIONE!” she shouts and the noise in the hall dies. All eyes are on me. My eyes open wider as I snap my head back in her direction. “What’s with you?” she asks me.

“Sorry, Ginny. I’m just really tired. I was in the library all day,” I tell her. She gives me a disapproving look and turns back to her food. I glance back up to the staff table to find Professor Snape with an amused smirk on his face. I vanish the plate in front of me and excuse myself from the table. 

As I am walking to Gryffindor tower an owl drops a letter at my feet. I bend to pick it up thinking I wasn’t expecting a post. The seal is that if the Survivors of War Organization. That was faster than I had been expecting. I continue walking to my dorm as I pull out the letter. There are two pages:

Miss Hermione Jean Granger,  
After reviewing your letter, we have selected a match for you. Attached you will find a copy of your match’s letter with a penname assigned where the signature would be. Your penname is as follows: Bitter Witch (I scoff at this). You are to send the first post with this owl. Your match should send you a return letter. The rest is up to you. Good luck.  
The Survivors of War Organization

As I walk through the portrait, I turn to the next page. I sit on the couch alone as everyone else is still enjoying the festivities and read:

To Whom It May Concern,  
I begrudgingly write this letter, though it is not entirely against my will. It seems that my position at work is suddenly dependent upon my use of your services. Ridiculous as it is, I have agreed to submit this asinine letter in the hopes of being left alone, contrary to your advertised purpose. Should I find out that you let my involvement in this charade slip, I will hunt you down personally.  
Sincerely,  
Bitter Wizard

I laugh aloud as I read the apparently male version of my letter. I wish I didn’t have to write the first letter, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. I go to my bed and pull my curtains closed to make the others think I’m asleep when they come up. As I set my quill to the parchment for the first time writing to this ‘bitter wizard’ I feel somewhat nervous. I shake the feeling and begin to write:

Dear Bitter Wizard,  
I regret to inform you that you have been matched with me. As I write that, I imagine the look you may have on your face as you pick up this envelope from your bowl of porridge. You would shake off the wet goop, call the bird a beast of some sort, pull out the letter, and glare at being addressed as Bitter Wizard. I too have been branded as bitter simply because I did not want to partake in this frivolous extracurricular activity. For all I know we could be the only two participating in this rubbish. Your letter says your position at work depends on your involvement in this. I understand the frustration that must cause you. Had I not agreed to this, my security, my home, and my sanity would have been at risk.  
Deepest Sympathy,  
Bitter Witch

I lay in bed awake until I’m sure everyone else has fallen asleep. I walk out to the common room wondering where I should look for the owl that brought me the letter. I see it fly down from a rafter it was waiting on. I tie the letter on its leg and open the window to let it fly out.


	3. Byron: An Introduction

As I sit eating breakfast, a letter is dropped onto my plate. I appreciate the irony and open the it. I am shocked to have received a reply so quickly. I don’t read the letter, but I shove it in my bag as I realize I would rather not have everyone in the entire Hall know I’ve been sentenced to this punishment. 

Morning classes go by quickly. I speak as little as possible and try not to make eye contact with my peers. Professor Bins is still as boring as could possibly be, and Professor Flitwick seems his usual cheerful self. Lunch comes, and I sneak off to the bathroom on the 4th floor. I sigh in relief for the break in stimulation and remembered the letter in my bag. I open the letter and am pleased to see it is more than two sentences because I am lonely, though I hate admitting it. I read:

My dearest Bitter Witch,  
Since you were so kind as to provide a visual of your idea of me, I would like to return the favor. You are sitting in your kitchen wearing a tatty old housecoat and worn in slippers sipping tea out of a stained mug. When you see the post has come, your abused and broken little heart beats wildly at the possibilities that lie inside. You read ‘my dearest Bitter Witch’ and smile only to be disappointed by my sarcasm. This you chastise yourself for as my name is, after all, Bitter Wizard. If my little anecdote had any truth in it at all, I hope to never hear from you again. If not, I will receive your reply with just a little less annoyance. I will say, however, that I was relieved to see you, at least on paper, are not some babbling idiot.  
Sincerely,  
Bitter Wizard

This man seems as cynical as I am. I pull out my quill and a piece of parchment. I quickly reply:

Bitter Wizard,  
You will be heartened to learn that nothing could be farther from the truth. I had actually forgotten it for several hours before I even opened it. I would not call my heart abused, it did not beat wildly, I don’t own a housecoat at all, I wasn’t in a kitchen, and I was wearing proper foot wear. Your words of endless possibilities and hearts beating wildly, even meant in sarcasm, lead me to believe that you read too many romance novels. My advice: stick to nonfiction. The only thing that makes me feel that way is a new book. As for your slightly insulting compliment, I too am relieved to see that you can write properly.  
Bitter Witch

I place the letter in my bag to send out later. I look myself over in the mirror quickly before heading down toward the dungeons for my first 7th year potions class; my first class with Professor Snape. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears and the voices of those I pass are muffled by the sound of it. I take a deep breath at the door before entering. I walk in and set my bag down next to the seat Ginny is occupying in the back corner.

“I will not teach whilst foolish giggling is occurring, Miss Granger.” I hear his voice right behind me. I close my eyes to stay focused on being calm. “You will sit in the front,” he continues. 

“Yes, Sir,” I say to him. I pick up my bag and walk toward the front. The only work station available is the one nearest his desk. He walks behind me, as if he knows I will flee were he not in my way. I take a seat and wait silently for class to begin. I study the grain in my desk while he gives his beginning of term speech only vaguely aware of his words. He assigns the first three chapters of the text as class work and homework if we are not finished. I pull out my book and try to focus on the page in front of me. I see his black boots walk close by and disappear behind his desk. 

Although I’m not looking at him, he has my attention. The five feet between us are suffocating. I feel the urge to dig my heels into the ground and propel myself farther from him, so I can breathe more easily. I rub my eyes hard and see black spots as a consequence. Unable to fight the urge any longer, I look up to meet his black piercing eyes. It is a strange experience. It is as if two voids ran into one another in the night. I feel transparent as I think of the man under that suit of armor. The seconds tick by, and it doesn’t occur to me to look away. My surroundings escape me. I am lost in the enigma that is Severus Snape, Snarky Potions Master, Decorated War Hero, and- 

“Unless you would like points taken from Gryffindor for not following directions, Miss Granger, I suggest you return to your text,” he says to me quietly. No one else appears to have heard him as I sensed no movement in the class, no heads turning, no snickering. My eyes return to my text, but I feel angry. I feel as though he has taken something from me. I was sharing a moment with another human being, and Professor Snape ripped me away from it. I’ve felt disconnected from others since the war ended. I blame him for that, and I hate myself for feeling that way. 

After dinner I head to Gryffindor tower and send my letter. I finish the potions reading and start on the second chapter of History of Magic. The owl returns with what I assume is my letter. I wonder if perhaps my companion has perished. I could not be so lucky. As soon as I open it, I see it is from Bitter Wizard. My confusion turns to quick calculation. Given the short time ago I sent my letter, I conclude that my companion could only be as far away as Hogsmeade and as close as the same castle I am currently calling my home. The thought that I may actually know Bitter Wizard is running like a feral animal through my mind. 

I try to return to my reading, but my mind keeps turning back to the unread letter. I want desperately to know who Bitter Wizard is. I give in to the demanding need to find a clue and head to my bed. I close the curtains around me even though I am alone. I unfold the letter with unsteady hands and read:

Bitter Witch,  
The idea of myself as an avid reader of romantic fiction actually made me laugh. I feel I owe you a debt of gratitude, as I have not laughed in quite some time. Dare I propose we change our given nicknames? I’ve had enough unwanted names in my lifetime, so yes: I dare!  
Mr. Byron, formerly known as Bitter Wizard

I laugh as I finish the letter and am relieved not to have read anything that leaves a foul taste in my mouth. I go straight to answering without contemplation:

Mr. Byron,  
Consider your debt of gratitude repaid. Your chosen name of a (muggle) romantic poet did not escape my notice. I’m dreadfully sorry if that disappoints you. Byron has a way of sticking in one’s mind for all of time. I didn’t even understand this when I first read it but remember it nevertheless: ‘should their days surviving peril pass and melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast with sorrow’. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been forced into the arrangement. As I stubbornly stand by the position that I am absolutely and undoubtedly fine, I cannot help but wonder. Has the world changed, or have I? Both I believe. It is true. I am not who I was before the war, but who is?  
Miss Finch, formerly known as Bitter Witch

I fold the letter and slip it into my bag. I want to send it, but I think better of it hating the thought of my companion, Mr. Byron, catching up to speed in regards to our proximity. 

The next morning I send the letter before heading to breakfast. Classes go by quickly, and I spend my evening in the library trying to get ahead of my studying. I receive a letter from Mr. Byron while I am packing up my things. As usual, I wait to read it until I am in bed:

Miss Finch,  
If you continue to quote things such as that, I will have no choice but to commit suicide. I jest. Perhaps. If Scout Finch is you, and To Kill a Mockingbird parallels your life, than I would have to believe you are younger than your writing style suggests. I hope, for your sake, you chose the name for another reason. If not, it would explain your bitterness now. Were you Scout? Were you oblivious to the cruelty of this world? Did you believe everything you heard and read even when it was contrary to what you saw with your very own eyes? I would apologize for prying had you not opened the door.  
Mr. Byron

His letter leaves me dumbfounded. I am tired, but a response is already forming in my mind. I write:

Mr. Byron  
Perhaps you jest? Do I detect falter in your bitterness? My heart longs to know the cause. I was far from as naïve as Scout Finch, but I was naïve. No one can really know the cruelty human beings are capable of until they experience it for themselves. In a way, I may have been Scout, but that is not why I chose the name. The book is one of my favorites. No, Scout was not my favorite character. In the world of To Kill a Mockingbird, my heart belongs to Arthur (Boo) Radley. At the risk of sounding like a friend, how has your week been?  
Miss Finch

I am utterly exhausted and fall asleep quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that was a lot of letters at once, but i wanted to get a cordial relationship established within this decade.


	4. The Rarest Of Concessions

I yawn and stretch my stiff muscles still fully under my covers when I wake and think about having my second potions class of the term today. Time seems to speed up and before I know it I am sitting in the dungeons waiting for class to begin.

Professor Snape instructs us to begin brewing the potion on page sixty-three. Wasting no time, I start immediately. I stay focused on my own cauldron determined not to give Professor Snape my attention today; something I have yet to do in his presence since I returned to Hogwarts. 

I hear Professor Snape say, “You should be spending the next five minutes cleaning up your work stations. Don’t forget to put a stasis on your potions.” Relieved class is almost over, I put my potion in a stasis and pack my bag. I am taking my equipment to the sink when one of my classmates runs flat into me, spilling ingredients on my arm and dropping his arm full of equipment on the ground in an ear splitting clang. 

I hear Professor Snape, “Detention, Mr. Richardson. Everybody out, and don’t touch anything!” My arm is burning, and it overrides the instruction I hear to leave. I go to the sink as my peers scurry to get out of the classroom. I put my arm, still covered by the sleeve of my white shirt, under the running water. “Miss Granger!” Professor Snape sounds impatient, but I have to get whatever this is off of me. 

My trembling hand goes to unbutton my cuff when I feel him come up to my side. I stop fussing with my shirt sleeve, and grab the side of the sink keeping my other arm under the water. I do not want him as an audience. “Professor, Anthony spilled a phial on me. I am not yet capable of leaving. I just need a moment to get this stuff off of me,” I tell him somewhat breathlessly due to the pain. 

“Let me help you. You’ll never get it off with your sleeve covering it,” he chastises me as he grabs my sleeve to push it up. I instantly pull away. I am horrified and probably look it. “It will scar if you do not get it off soon. Don’t be foolish,” he sounds angry. I don’t know if he is angry with me or still angry with Anthony.

I know he is right, and I do need help. I just haven’t told anyone but Harry and Ron. My eyes are watering, and I can’t bring myself to speak. I nod and place my arm back over the sink, so he is able to help me. I can’t bear to look at him or it, so I turn my head away and focus all of my energy on keeping the tears from escaping. They are prisoners scheming to flee at the change of guards. Between the burning and my humiliation, I don’t know if I can handle it. 

I turn my arm so that my thumb is facing the sink and the area of my arm affected is facing up to delay the inevitable. He pulls my sleeve up gently and grabs a bottle containing milky grey liquid. I hear him lather his hands in it before he begins to massage it into my skin which now feels as if is bubbling. I relax at his touch. I am taken back to him helping me up with such care my first night in the castle. His fingers brush over my rough and slowly healing scar, and the moment of comfort is over. I feel him turn my arm over, and I want nothing more than to run out of here. 

His ministrations stop momentarily. I am waiting for it. I am waiting for him to take advantage of my vulnerability. I am confused when he continues to work the liquid into my arm. “You are not foolish, Miss Granger,” he says softly, “I stand corrected.” His words throw me off guard, and I am unable to hold back the tears any longer. I quickly brush them away with my free hand hoping like hell he does not detect them. “Have you had that looked at?” he asks me quietly. I don’t understand why he cares. He shouldn’t.

I clear my throat before responding, “I haven’t let anyone…N-no, Sir.” I feel overwhelmed. His touch and his scent are soothing, as are his words. I am crying in the potions room once again. I stand here, scarred, burning, humiliated, and comforted. What a giant mess. Where is the Professor Snape I once knew? Where is the Hermione Granger I knew? Why can’t at least one thing go back to the way it used to be? 

“I think I got it all, Miss Granger,” he says drying my arm with a hand towel.

“Thank you, Professor,” I say to him while he still has a hold of my arm.

“Would you like me to take a look at it, considering I’ve already seen it,” he nearly whispers to me. I agree with a nod but don’t speak. The intimacy of this exchange has me both terrified and exhilarated. I judge myself harshly for the latter because I don’t think it is how I should feel. 

“Come,” he instructs me. I follow him into his office through a door off to the side of the classroom. “Have a seat,” he tells me motioning to the sofa opposite a fireplace. I sit and allow my eyes to wander to the shelves of books lining the walls. I am not surprised in the least. I wonder if there are more. I wonder if this is the overflow from his private quarters. I wonder if he has access to his rooms through this office. He returns and my straying thoughts come back to why I am here.

I watch Professor Snape sit on my left much closer than I would have expected. He sets down a few bottles and draws his wand. “May I,” he asks me. 

I roll up my sleeve and offer him my arm. “I should probably tell you. It bleeds from time to time. Opens up whenever it damn well pleases actually.” He looks at me with his usual blank expression before he casts what I assume are several diagnostic spells. I watch him fascinated. He is completely absorbed in what he is doing. I wonder if he realizes how odd he appears. He has my scar only inches from his face. His hair is tickling my arm as is his breath. 

“Professor, what exactly are you looking for?” I ask him. 

He responds but does not answer my question, “who did this to you?” His voice betrays no clues as to his meaning behind the question. It sounds like he is collecting data, as if my answer will tell him something.

“Bellatrix,” I answer him. I hear him mumble something, but all I catch is the word ‘psychotic’. 

“She was deranged at best before she went to Azkaban. Afterwards, she was completely unhinged. She must have done this with a cursed blade. The Introvulnus curse; Latin for repeat injury. I may be able to get rid of the curse. Perhaps the scar too,” he tells me still focused on my arm. I feel guilty for doubting him, but still I do not allow myself the hope. 

He sets my arm down across his lap with the back of my hand on his knee farthest from me. It isn’t wholly inappropriate, but for Merlin’s sake my arm is in his lap. My arm itches at the points of contact with his lean thighs, and I fight the urge to pull away from him. He picks up a bottle and dabs some liquid on his right index finger. He leans over to get a closer look and begins tracing the ugly lines of my scar. I feel myself blushing. I tell myself it is all due to embarrassment, but the flutter in my stomach at his touch is making that a hard lie to believe. 

I wish he would just grab my arm and stop this one finger tracing. It has my nerve endings on fire. He touches the delicate skin on the inside of my wrist, and I feel the sensation all the way to my groin. I try to focus on my breathing. My lungs want to pant, but I suppress the urge. I should have seen this coming. It’s been too long since I let anyone touch me. I tell myself it is a perfectly normal reaction after a period of abstinence from human contact. In this moment, I absolutely despise myself. My body is betraying me, but I deserve it. It is clear; pleasure has become painful because I am undeserving of it.

Finally, he stops. “I’ll have to look into it and get back to you, Miss Granger.”

I thank him and leave as quickly as possible without running. What just happened was too much to process, so I returned to my room rather than going to transfiguration twenty minutes late to class. Once I am in the safety of my bed, I let out the tears I was able to hold back. 

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“Hermione, it’s almost time for dinner. Are you alright?” Ginny says shaking me awake.

“Dinner!” I practically shout at her. “I’ve missed classes!”

Ginny looked a little alarmed by my reaction. She laughed before saying, “Professor McGonagall sent me to check on you. She said Professor Snape told her you had an accident in potions and advised you to rest for a while.”

“He said what?” I respond very confused. He never told me-

“Anthony dropped his equipment at the end of potions class, and that was the last I saw of you, are you sure you’re alright?” she questioned.

“OH,” I exclaimed in relief. “Right. I’m sorry Gin. I must be a bit groggy. I’m fine, really. All the excitement must’ve wiped me out. I hardly remember lying down.” I give her a small smile and get up from my bed. How did he know I wouldn’t make it to my classes? “I just need a minute. I’ll be down soon. Go ahead and go to dinner,” I tell her. After she leaves I send my letter to Mr. Byron that I wrote the night before. 

I avoid looking at the staff table while I eat a small portion of the food on my plate. I excuse myself and head back to Gryffindor tower. Still feeling exhausted, I fall asleep quickly.


	5. Hagrid's Visitor

I wake the next morning to find a letter from Mr. Byron on my pillow. I sit up and read before emerging from behind my curtains:

Miss Finch,  
I have a taxing profession, and I’ve only just returned this week actually. Having to face those who have suffered in the war is exactly as I had anticipated; it's horrid. I am having to face that dreaded question: could I have done more? I tell myself I could not have, but I’m not sure if I believe it. Am I to take it that you have experienced this cruelty you knew not of before the war? What happened to you to make you so bitter, witch?  
Mr. Byron

Something in his letter stabs at my chest, though I cannot place my finger on it. I write a reply to his letter:

Mr. Byron,  
Your words make me wonder if you have been stealing from my mind. Do we all feel this way? Do we all wonder what else we could have done? Do we all feel responsible? Are we all stuck in the same personal hell? I was attacked, but I do not wish to speak of it as if it were an experience unique to me. We all have suffered. My suffering was no more than anyone else’s. And no, that incident is not what made me bitter. If I had to blame something for my newfound bitterness it would be that war has shown me a side of myself I did not know existed. I realized both sides of this war fought for what they believed in, loved their families, and had good and bad in them. I have seen the darkness within myself. That is something that cannot be unseen. I cannot carry on as I had been. Before the war, I had a false sense of arrogant, self-righteous pride for which I am now deeply ashamed.  
Miss Finch

I look over my letter. I feel uncertain about sending it. My response to his question is personal. Once I am convinced I have not shared any hint at my identity, I seal the letter and put it in my bag. The rest of my day goes by quickly. I grab a piece of fruit at dinner and tell Ginny I am going to the library, which is a lie. I head toward the astronomy tower to get some fresh air and enjoy the view. 

The full moon illuminates the grounds in the most beautiful and eerie way possible. I see the unmistakable black clad figure of Professor Snape approaching Hagrid’s repaired hut. I watch mildly interested. I assume Professor Snape is collecting some sort of potion’s ingredients as he has never seemed fond of Hargrid. Both professors disappear inside the hut. I sigh in relief to get back to my own world, but I spot the SWO owl near me. I remember the letter I wrote, pull it from my bag, and attach it to the owl’s leg. He lets out a little hoot and takes off in flight up over the railing of the tower and down.

Down? I realize the oddity in this. I lean over the edge and watch the owl fly low on the grounds and into one of the open windows of Hagrid’s hut. “Hagrid?” I say aloud in disbelief. My heart sinks with the realization that the owl was not delivering my letter to Hagrid but to his guest, Professor Snape. I cover my face with my hands and sink to the stone floor of the tower. I am crushed, and my mind in swimming in agony. 

I am both sad and angry with the knowledge of my written acquaintance. Mr. Byron had been what seemed like my only connection to the world since Professor Snape caused me to loathe myself. I know I deserve this anguish, but I also know that he does not. It just is not fair. If one of us deserves anonymity, it is definitely him. I feel foolish reflecting on the Headmistress’s admission she had made others sign up for the SWO. It had never occurred to me that she wasn’t just talking about students. His job depended on it. She had forced him, just as she had forced me. 

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After hours of tossing and turning while thinking of Mr. Byron, I get out of bed and make my way down to the common room. I am greeted by the owl holding a letter from Mr. Byron. I take the letter from him, but I stare at it unopened. I feel like returning it unread. It is a selfish thought. He doesn’t deserve that. The weight of my guilt is absolutely crushing, and I cannot help but cry. Through wet eyes I read:

Miss Finch,  
At times, life can be absolutely brutal. It can quash the will to live, but it does not seem to do the same to everyone. It randomly selects some of us to crush while leaving others untouched. Like a tornado, it picks up ones life, thrashes it about, spits it out in a shredded mess of debris, and continues along without any remorse. The question is: does it choose those who deserve it, or does it choose those who can handle it?  
I can only imagine what you must have done to see this ‘darkness’ within yourself. I can almost guarantee you that I have done worse. If you continue to let it eat away at you, what will become of you? Who will you be in five years and then ten? Are you keen on the idea of knitting in a rocking chair surrounded by dozens of cats? If you are, then by all means, carry on with your self-loathing. If not, you should probably seek out a therapist. I admit I am rather amused thinking of you being offended by that suggestion.  
Mr. Byron

The letter in my hands is damp with my tears. I cannot even think of replying at this moment. I climb back in my bed and stuff the letter under my pillow. I shake my head at the silly notion of ‘sleeping on it’, and close my eyes. I force myself to think of the summer I spent sailing around the Mediterranean with my parents. I try to recall the rocking of the boat on the surface of the ocean to sooth my bruised conscience. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I wake in a panic fearing I’m late for class. I realize it is Saturday and pull my pillow over my head. I dread writing Mr. Byron, who I now know to be Professor Snape. He deserves better company than I can give him. After being unable to fall back asleep, I get up and dress for the day. I skip breakfast and throw some books in my bag before heading down to the lake.

I’m glad the Gryffindors are having tryouts today, as I am able to find solitude out on the grounds in a shady spot. I pull out a sheet of parchment to reply to Mr. Byron, but no words are coming to my mind. I stare at the blank page willing it to magically fill with ink. I want him to be aware he may know me. That way, he can continue to write to me if he so chooses, or cut his ties with me if he would rather. I finally set my quill to the parchment:

Mr. Byron,  
I definitely deserve it. If you are suggesting otherwise, I am afraid I do not deserve your kindness. I am now a shadow of who I once was. I do not know yet if I can handle it. I nearly quit life this summer. I cut into my vein and watched life leaving me. In case you did not know, that gets you a lovely vacation at St. Mungo’s resort for the mentally disturbed! They did force me to see a therapist. We sat in silence for one hour every day I was there. What good is talking about what you cannot change? I’m afraid that is why I was forced into this arrangement with you. Why do you suppose you were forced into this? Did you do something equally foolish?  
Miss Finch

I fold the parchment, melt the wax, and seal it with my Gryffindor crest stamp. I know I am doing the right thing, but I cannot help but hesitate. Once I send it, I cannot undo it. I wonder if he will deduce my identity. I wonder if he will even write me back. As I secure the letter to the owl, I believe it is the last letter of our correspondence. I have no right to feel sad, so I stuff the feeling down. I take my shoes and socks off and put my feet into the cool water of the Black Lake. Although I worry my loneliness will return, which I hadn’t until now noticed its absence, I feel a sense of relief. My part is done, and I do not have to think on it anymore. I feel myself drift off into a nap.


	6. A Hufflepuff Concoction

Sunday passes with no letter from Mr. Byron, just as I had expected. Monday is a quiet day mostly, aside from a second year setting his hair ablaze accidentally during lunch. I avoid eye contact with Professor Snape during potions. The last thing I want is for him to see into my mind. I feel ridiculous being so paranoid. Why would he care about what was going on in my head anyway? Still, it bothers me. Tuesday comes and goes. Wednesday morning is slow and boring. I am not looking forward to potions. Once in the dungeons, however, I am able to give my potion my undivided attention. It is funny to me how much easier it is to stay out of trouble without Harry, Ron, and, of course, Neville to look after during Professor Snape’s class. 

I only have a few minutes left of potions, then I’m out of Professor Snape’s gaze until next week. That thought doesn’t cheer me up nearly as much as it should. I frown into my cauldron. It was a perfectly brewed blood replenishing potion. I bottle a sample to take to Professor Snape who is at his desk. I don’t want to go up to him. I roll my eyes at myself for even considering levitating it to him. Some Gryffindor I am. I remind myself, that I cannot act this way because I do not want him to know I know he is Mr. Byron. I set my sample on his desk, and my heart stops when he addresses me.

“I’d like a word after class, Miss Granger,” he says stiffly.

I feel sick. I want to vomit. Breath damn it! Isn’t that supposed to be involuntary? “Yes, Sir,” I say and head back to my seat. The class files out of the dungeon leaving me alone with the professor. My heat is beating so loudly I wonder if he can hear it. I am sure he is angry, but it was not my fault. I did not know I was writing to him. Nothing in my letter would make him suspect me specifically, but I still fear he knows.

Professor Snape stands from his desk and says, “I’ve found a potion I believe will rid you of your injury, Miss Granger. Come with me.” 

With a huge sigh of relief, I follow him into his office. He motions for me to sit on the couch, so I do. He stands in front of me, but I do not look up to him. Instead, I focus on the bookshelf. I shift awkwardly under his gaze. 

“I’m afraid the last ingredient I require is blood from the wound,” he says to me softly.

“Oh!” I exclaim. “Of course, Sir,” I say rolling up my sleeve for him. He kneels in front of me and grabs hold of my wrist. It feels smaller in his hand. I feel small next to him and not just in size. He holds his wand over the hideous word etched into my skin, and I feel it burning. I keep still, not wanting him to know how painful it is. He levitates drops of blood into a phial and closes my flesh. 

“It will only take about fifteen more minutes. You can read something if you’d like,” he said waving his hand at the book shelf. 

“Thank you, Sir,” I reply and walk over to the bookshelf. I see a book I recognize. It calls to me, and I pick it up off of the bottom shelf. I return to the sofa and open the Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe to the page bookmarked: The Raven. Of course. As I envision Professor Snape pleading with the bird, I feel somewhat ill. I flip through the book until I come across the Tell Tale Heart. It is better at least than a story about being driven mad with bereavement. 

I devour the pages. I am there in the story, like only Poe can do to each and every one of us. The police are questioning him. My heart is pounding out of my chest. I am guilty, and I am caught. They know. He knows. Professor Snape’s black boot comes into my view over the top of the book, and I jump slamming the book closed.

“Give you a fright, did he?” he asks sounding amused. 

I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. I fear he must know I feel guilty about something. It is completely clear to me why I have reacted so tensely. He hands me a goblet full of transparent yellow liquid with spidery gold webbing throughout it. It reminds me of Hufflepuff; Cedric to be more specific. 

Professor Snape walks back to his desk and says, “It should take about a week, but I believe it will get rid of that for you. I watch him pick up a cup of tea and raise it in the air slightly. “Bottoms up,” he says looking me in the eye.

I quickly look back down at the strange concoction. I drink the potion in two swallows. It tastes like the sun. How can anything taste like the sun? The salty aftertaste reminds me of sea air. I am curious as to what this potion is, but I am even more anxious to get the hell out of here. I look down into the empty goblet not saying anything fearing it would be incredibly rude to say, ‘Thanks, can I leave now?’

After what felt like too long, Professor Snape speaks to me, “I do not believe you should have any side effects, but if anything seems off over the next week, I expect you to be forthcoming. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Sir,” I tell him.

“You may go now,” he says conveying a little annoyance. I do not know where it comes from. He is the one who invited me in here. Perhaps he believes I will not tell him if I suffer any unwanted effects. He would be correct, so it is unfair for me to feel his annoyance is unjustified. I take my leave and head to the library.

I search high and low looking for a potion book with information on this mysterious healing potion, but after several hours, I come up empty handed. I look up when I hear the telltale pop of apparation to see the face of Winky.

“Winky is to bring Miss dinner. Miss needs to eat, she is too thin,” Winky said matter-of-factly.

I am a bit offended, but thank Winky not wanting to argue with the little creature. I send Winky on her way and pack up my things. I eat a few bites of the food before vanishing it. Having searched for far more difficult information in the past, I am not the least bit discouraged. 

I take my time heading back to Gryffindor tower. When I pass a couple of 6th year Ravenclaws snogging, I am disgusted with myself for feeling jealous. I wish I had an escape from my life. A proper snogging would be a welcome distraction from my thoughts, but there isn’t even anyone here I would consider allowing to touch me. I take a detour and enter the prefect bathroom. It is deserted, so I decide to draw a bath.

As I peel off my clothes and slip into the warm soapy water, I recall the man who lived next door to my parents. The handsome muggle was sitting on his porch drinking tea while reading the morning paper. He had short dark hair, dark eyes, and a lean figure. I imagine him as I slide my hand between my legs hoping to ease some tension. I wonder if I would even be able to tolerate his touch. Maybe I am getting better. Professor Snape, of all people, touching me didn’t make me cringe. He was unexpectedly gentle. I think of his long dexterous fingers. “Oh Gods!” escapes my mouth as I realize I’m touching myself thinking of him. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I abandon my attempt at getting off as it has taken a turn I had not anticipated. I quickly finish bathing and hurry to my dormitory.

I figured I would not receive a letter from Mr. Byron, but I still feel somewhat disappointed looking at my neatly made undisturbed bed. The knowledge that I am or was in Gryffindor probably unsettled him.


	7. Tea For Two

Classes drag on and on all day Thursday. Friday is the same. It is now dinner though, and I’m not at all hungry. I excuse myself early and head for the showers. As I am lathering myself with soap, I notice my scar has faded significantly. In fact, it is almost gone. I am now as determined as ever to find out what that potion was. Once dried off, I head straight to the library to continue my hunt for the mysterious potion. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Miss Granger,” I hear Madam Pince call my name retrieving me from my sleep. I grumble and look down at the book I had been using as a pillow. “It’s near curfew. I’m afraid I have to throw you out, dear.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize it was so late,” I tell her as I gather my things. I return the borrowed books to their appropriate shelves and exit the library.

That familiar gut wrenching despair grips me on my walk back to Gryffindor tower. It is a loneliness that cannot be mended by a warm body. It is a soul trapped in a cell in Azkaban for all of eternity. Not wanting anyone to ask what is wrong with me, I brush away the tears as I approach the portrait. I hurry upstairs and climb into bed without changing. It is dark, and I am surprised to hear the crinkle of paper upon my head hitting my pillow. I sit up and cast lumos to see the cause.

My breath catches in my throat as I look upon the slightly wrinkled letter on my pillow. I fear it holds angry words, but want nothing more than a usual reply from Mr. Byron. With trembling hands I unfold the letter and read:

Miss Finch,  
It has been a busy week at work, and I’m thankful it is finally over. To answer your question in regards to what I have done to deserve this, my boss offered me a change in position that she assumed I wanted. When I turned her down, she thought it was cause for concern. That is my best guess anyway. Honestly, I did not think I would live through the war. Now that it is over, I find myself wanting as simple of a life as possible. I desire the position that I know. It is what is comfortable.  
I wanted to die once while consumed with grief. A friend of mind had the audacity to ask me, “what use would you be then?” I wanted to hex him! Did he think I was not suffering enough, and guilt was the solution? If you choose to stick around long enough, the fog will lift, and you will have the nerve to ask that very same question to another in their time of need. So I ask you, what use will you be then? Find a purpose, and once you have fulfilled that purpose, find another. That is what we do. I’ve never figured out the ‘why’; however, so do not ask it of me.  
Mr. Byron

I cry myself to sleep. 

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Saturday morning I wake with the letter from Mr. Byron crumpled in my hand. I groan as I realize I’m still wearing my school robes, shoes and all. I cast a tempus and am surprised to see it is nearly ten in the morning. Debating changing my clothes or going back to sleep, I sit up and stretch my stiff muscles. The familiar pop of apparation startles me.

“The Headmistress wishes to speak with Miss Granger,” says the rather grumpy looking house elf standing in front of her. 

“Thank you. I’ll go to her as soon as I’m dressed,” I tell the putout elf. He disapparates immediately. I change in a hurry and make myself somewhat presentable. My shirt hangs a little loosely on my form, but it will have to do. 

I walk through the castle and ride the stairs up to the door to the Headmistresses office. As I step nearer, it opens. To my surprise, I do not see the Headmistress but the buttoned up chest of Professor Snape. I hear the door shut behind him, and I look up to meet his eyes. He wears a calculating look. I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Professor,” I say in greeting. My chest tightens at our proximity. It is a suffocating feeling, as if I swam too deep and am desperately trying to break the surface before I drown. 

His eyes narrow as he says coldly, “Miss Granger.” He is still standing in my way blocking the door. “What business have you with the Headmistress on a Saturday?”

His tone and his words have me feeling like a guilty first year, yet I’ve done nothing wrong. “I am not yet aware, as she is the one who called upon me, Sir,” I say trying not to sound as irritated as I am by his grilling. His heady scent fills me, and I look away. I fake smoothing my clothes in an attempt to wipe off the sweat forming on my palms. Realizing it is I who is in his way, I step aside for him to leave. I close my eyes feeling more annoyed with myself than with him now. 

I feel him brush by me, and I turn toward the door. I fight the urge to look back at his retreating form and knock on the Headmistress’s door.

“Come in,” I hear her say. I push the door open and walk through. I expect her to be sitting at her desk, but she is standing by the window looking out over the grounds she is now responsible for. “Have a seat, Miss Granger,” she tells me.

I sit in the chair opposite her desk and wait for her to reveal the reason I am here. Two cups of tea appear on her desk in front of me. I take liberty and pick up one of them for something to do with my nervous hands. 

“I wanted to check up on you, to be frank. Have you been keeping up writing your Survivors of War Organization correspondent?” she says to me jumping straight to her point.

“Yes, of course,” I tell her. “Classes are going well. I’m doing just fine, Headmistress.”

Minerva let out an exasperated sigh as she sat down behind her desk. “You do not look fine, Miss Granger,” she said bringing the teacup up to her pursed lips. I looked away not sure of what to say. “You look as though you’ve lost even more weight since you’ve been here.” 

“That is what is desirable these days. Is it not?” I deadpanned. Cheeky, yes, but what else am I to say?

She leans forward toward me and says, “If you mean to tell me your ambition is now to be on the cover of Witch Wardrobe, I’m afraid you are in far worse condition than I had expected.” 

I stifle a giggle and give her a knowing look. She smiles back at me shaking her head. “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, but I am feeling better.”

Her face turned serious again, “Miss Weasley tells me you hardly speak to anyone anymore. She says you are in the library all day, and you shut yourself up in bed at night.” 

She takes another sip of tea, and I curse Ginny for talking about me behind my back. It is my fault I suppose. Perhaps if I had spoken more than two words to her in the last two weeks, she would not have felt the need to talk to our former head of house about me. “I’ve just been focused on my studies. My last chance to cram it all in, you know. I just want to be sure I get everything I can out of my last year here.”

“Tomorrow is the first Hogsmeade trip. You should go. Enjoy yourself,” she tells me. I nod and give her a small smile.

“You may go, but please try to eat more. It would be quite a shame if you were to get sick and miss extra classes trying to recover,” she warns trying her best to get through to me.

“No, I don’t want that. Good day, Headmistress,” I say standing from the chair. I take my leave and head to the library.

As I make my way through the castle I consider my next letter to Mr. Byron. I’m not quite sure what to say to him. I walk past a table of Ravenclaw students near the front of the library, down toward the back and off to the right corner. I sit at the small table and gaze out the window overlooking the forest. I summon my book bag, and think of Professor Snape as I wait for it to come to me.

I question whether he has been kinder to me because he feels he owes me somehow, which is absolutely ridiculous, or if he is kinder not having to play double agent while his life and the future of the wizarding world teeters on the edge of complete chaos and destruction. I wish I could go back to being a first year, thinking only of him with suspicion in regards to Harry and the Sorcerer’s Stone. On second thought, I would never choose to relive the last 6 years of my life, so it would not be worth it. And now? What of him now? What of my thoughts of him? He is a far better being than I am. What have I become? I am now worse than someone I know to have bullied children, to have said the cruelest things to young impressionable students, be it out of necessity or not, I am no better. Worse in fact. A few cruel words are nothing compared to-. My bag comes through the air quickly toward me. I grab it out of the air and pull out a sheet of parchment.

I dip my quill in the ink and hesitate to set it to paper. A round drop of jet black liquid drops like a tear from my crying feathered friend. I proceed tentatively:

Dear Mr. Byron,  
I believe I understand. I also wanted to return to my life as it was before the war. I’m afraid, however, that it is not as I had hoped. It looks and sounds the same, but it is an imposter! I do not intend to exit this life in haste, Mr. Byron. You needlessly worry yourself. If that were to ever happen, it would be because madness gripped me by the throat, and, in which case, there would have been nothing anyone could have done about it.  
I hope my letter finds you well. I believe I’m as well as I should be, yet I’ve just been reminded that others are still worried for me and that I am apparently too thin. It was quite rude, if you ask me. I would never go up to someone and say, ‘you’re too fat.’ I may have to consider rethinking my position on that, though. It would serve them right. What say you on the subject? Can I be blunt and careless with their feelings? Can I treat them as they have treated me in an effort to get them to open their eyes? All I want is to be left alone for Merlin’s sake!  
Miss Finch


	8. Hogsmeade

“I’ll catch up with you later, Gin,” I tell her in a hurry as I step off the curb and begin to cross the street.

“That’s likely,” I hear Ginny say to Annabelle.

I relax a bit as i walk into the bookstore and catching a whiff of leather bindings and print. Unsure of weather I should be looking for a potions book, a healing book, or a book of healing potions, I approach the man at the register. “Excuse me, Sir” I say. When he looks up from the newspaper I continue, “I was hoping to find a book to help me identify a potion I saw once. I believe it to be a healing potion, but I haven’t much more information than that. Do you have any sort of potion index reference books?” The man behind the counter only grunts with a nod before coming around the desk.

“Come,” he says stalking back to the far corner of the store. I follow him closely. “You’re sure it was a healing potion?” he asks.

“Fairly. I can’t be sure if that was its primary intention, but it certainly was an effect,” I answer as best I can.

“Here we go,” he says pulling down a heavy book. “1001 healing potions,” he tells me handing me the large text. 

“Is every potion in this book, Sir?” I ask him honestly.

He eyes me for a moment before asking, “do you intend to brew it, or just identify it?”

“Just identify it. Why do you ask?” I question him.

“Well, in that case, there is another book. If it is not in the one I just gave you, it’ll be in this,” he whispers handing me a much smaller book. It looks old, used even. I give him a confused look. He steps a little closer to me and says in a hushed voice, “you won’t find any instruction in this one. Dark magic you see. Basic information, but no instruction.” He looks me over once more. 

“Well, like I said, I just want to identify it,” I reassure him with a smile. I follow him back to the register and pay. The little used book was expensive, but books are the one thing I’m never hesitant to splurge on. 

Once outside the shop I look at the smaller of the two books I purchased. From Light to Dark: potions reclassified as unlawful during the 18th century. As curious as I am about this new book, I intend to start with the other. It seems far more likely to hold the answers I seek. I shrink the texts and put them in my bag. 

Not feeling like socializing with Ginny and her friends, I make my way back to the castle. I have not seen Hagrid yet, so I head toward his hut half hoping he isn’t there. Approaching the hut, I hear what I can only describe as sloshing water. He must be giving fang a bath. I knock on the door and look back over the deserted grounds. Hagrid’s heavy footsteps draw nearer, and I immediately regret having knocked. The urge to hide in the bushes washes over me, but the door opens before I can flee.

“ ‘Ermione! Wha a pleasant surprise!” the half giant says embracing me warmly. I cringe at his touch and feel water seeping from his clothes into my shirt. I pull away and look at his wet appearance.

“You’re soaked, Hagrid! If it’s not a good time I can-,” I start to say, but he interrupts me.

“Nonsense. We were jus’ treatin’ the baby kraken for colic,” he says as if that does not at all sound odd.

We? “You have a baby kraken in your hut?” I ask as Hagrid steps aside to allow me in. “They belong in the ocean. You do know that fully grown, it will need a tank far bigger than your entire hu-,?” I say stepping past him, only to stop mid sentence as I set my eyes on the scene playing out in Hagrid’s living room. I take in the sight of Professor Snape leaning over the edge of a large fish tank with his right arm submerged holding something that looks like a bottle up to the mouth of the many tentacle creature. The thing has a few tentacles wrapped around his exposed arm. His right shirtsleeve is rolled up to the elbow. He is dripping wet as well, and his shirt is clinging to his translucent skin enough to hint at a light scattering of black hair across his chest.

“Oh, I know, ‘Ermione. Found ‘er caught up in a muggle’s fishin’ net. Rescued ‘er, I did. I’ll be returnin’ ‘er once she’s good as new,” he explaines.

Professor Snape looks up to meet my eyes with a look of irritation. I quickly turn back to Hagrid feeling uncomfortable. “Hagrid, maybe I should come back another time,” I say hoping like hell he realizes I don’t want to be in here with Professor Snape.

He waves me off saying, “I won’t hear of it. Been waitin’ long enough ter see yer as it is.” He smiles at me brightly and goes to retrieve a tea pot. 

I sit down at the table and take the tea Hagrid offers me. Water is sloshing about in the tank in the corner of the room, and Professor Snape is still quietly administering whatever it is that cures colic in sea monsters. Hagrid says, “Got a letter from ‘arry last night. Says he hasn’ heard from ya since start of term. Says he and Ron are worried ‘bout ya.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes. I tell him, “I’ve been busy, as have they. Honestly, if they were really worried, don’t you think they would have owled me and not you? It seems likely that auror training is going to their heads. Making them suspicious and all.” I hear a snort from the corner of the room, and remember Hagrid and I have an audience. I feel completely vulnerable and exposed. I am worried about what else Hagrid may bring up in front of Professor Snape. 

“How are classes, Hagrid?” I ask wanting to steer the conversation away from my life. I glance over at Professor Snape. The little octopus looking creature is still wound tightly around his arm. I’m taken with how different he looks without his black teaching robes on. He turns his head up in my direction, and I quickly look away not wanting to be caught in my curiosity.

“Good. Good,” Hagrid says taking a big swig from his mug. “Arry said ya were havin’ a rough summer. Said ya were-,” Hagrid was saying when he was cut off.

“Hagrid, a hand if you will,” Professor Snape says casually as he tries to pry the long, thin tentacles off of his dominant arm. 

With a gruff, Hagrid stands and walks over to the creature. He reaches down into the tank and tickles the creature on its underbelly. “Most people don’t know ther’ ticklish!” he says with a chuckle. “Thanks, Professor. With any luck, she’ll be good ter go in a week er two. Will ya be stayin’ fer some tea?”

“No,” Professor Snape says emphatically while rolling down his sleeve. He casts a drying spell on his clothes and approaches me at the table. I grip my mug tightly, as if it were a weapon to protect me. I wish it were a portkey. My nerves are frazzled as he comes closer and closer to me. He doesn’t stop at my side like I expect, but steps behind my chair. I am frozen with unease. 

“Miss Granger,” he says in his typical waspish tone, “I need to get going if you don’t mind.”

“Pardon?” I ask turning to face him completely confused. Does he want something from me?

“My robe,” he elaborates impatiently gesturing to the robes neatly folded over the back of the chair I am sitting on.

“Oh!” I exclaim jumping up from my seat as if offended by the garment bumping clumsily into the table making my tea spill over the edge of my mug. I cringe at my own nervousness. I look away from his scrutinizing gaze feeling absolutely ridiculous as he puts his robes back on and magics his buttons all the way up his front. It feels extraordinarily intimate him dressing so near me. Without a word to either of us, Professor Snape leaves the hut as if he were late for some important meeting. 

“Good man, Professor Snape. Bit rough ‘round the edges, but good man. Course, ya know that,” Hagrid says picking up his mug. “Had to brew a fish flavored calming draught for the kraken. Tried a regular one, but she wasn’ havin’ nothin’ ter do with it.”

“I see. Sounds disgusting,” I say thinking of a fish flavored liquid of any kind. “I have quite a lot of homework to do. I really need to get going, but it was so nice to see you,” I tell him with a smile.

He frowns and looks into his mug before saying, “ya know I’m here if ya ever need ter talk, right?” 

“Of course, Hagrid. I’m fine though. I’m just busy,” I explain. I give him a hug and take my leave. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I’m on potion 61 of 1001 healing potions. No luck so far, but there are many left for me to eliminate. I am certain it is in here. If it weren’t so interesting, I would be skipping the potions once I disqualified them, but I just don’t have it in me. It’s nearly eleven at night, and I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open.


	9. Body Of Vapor

Upon waking, I find a letter from Mr. Byron on my pillow. The image of Professor Snape in a sopping wet white shirt assaults my mind. I feel a flutter in my stomach and groan at its very appalling and absurd implications. I recall the look of annoyance on his face when he looked at me, and I find myself having no desire to read the letter. I push it under my pillow and out of my mind.

I make small talk with Ginny during breakfast hoping she will not be talking to the Headmistress about me again anytime soon. I spend the rest of my day getting ahead of next week’s homework. After dinner I bury myself in 1001 healing potions until I fall asleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It is Monday; the start of the second week of term. I have potions later today, and I dread it. I will time to slow down throughout my morning without any luck. During lunch, I pick at my food because my stomach is twisted into an impossible knot. My first potion’s class was uncomfortable to say the least, and the second I was nearly maimed. Pondering the horrors that lie in wait, my ears buzz. The buzzing in my head continues as I walk all the way down the potions room. Only three hours, I tell myself as I find my seat.

The rest of the class silently takes their seats, knowing full well that Professor Snape has occasionally given detention to talking students the second he walks into the classroom. Professor Snape emerges from the door to his office and flicks his wand at the classroom door causing it to slam shut. 

Quietly, he addresses the class, “Today you will be brewing Mora Transcendi, to transcend space or otherwise known as Corpus Suspiro, body of vapor. When brewed correctly, this potion will give the drinker the temporary ability to become a state of gas with the ability to move through solid objects. Once in said state, you are highly flammable, which is the reason it is not used to defend oneself from unwanted attacks. I will tell you this only once, when your potion is ready, do NOT drink it, or you will be drawn to the nearest flame and spontaneously combust. I highly doubt any of you will be able to brew a potion near good enough to test, but if you feel you have done so, see me at the end of class. Anyone not finished, which will undoubtedly be all of you,” he pauses to look around the room, “you will finish Saturday afternoon during your own free time. Instructions are on the board. Begin.”

I quickly get to work on the potion, and feel confused by the end of the first hour of brewing. I have no idea what color the potion should be, and the book is of no use. I have no choice but to ask. I raise my hand, and I wait for Professor Snape to notice as he circles the other student’s cauldrons.

“Yes, Miss Granger,” Professor Snape says as he approaches me from behind. I lower my hand as he leans over my shoulder peering into my cauldron as it contains what appears to be bubbling black tar.

“Sir, there is no mention of what color it should be in this state, nor does it mention the color from step 7 onward,” I say. I realize it is not a question, but hope he does not bark at me for raising my hand to make a statement.

Professor Snape take my stirring rod in his hand and says loud enough for the entire class to hear, “The color of your potions after step seven is of no importance to me. It is said to reflect something within the brewer. It does not accurately represent a correctly or incorrectly brewed potion, so you will have to trust your own ability to follow instructions.” I watch him stir my cauldron counterclockwise once. Twice. He looks at me with narrowed eyes, and I wonder if I have already made a mistake in my brewing. 

“Carry on, Miss Granger,” he states, putting my stirring rod back on my table. I give him a nod and watch him stalk away. 

Five minutes before the end of class I complete the last step in the instructions. I believe I have followed them precisely but am worried that I have made a mistake somehow. My potion still looks like black tar. How am I supposed to take this to him? Brewed correctly or not, I don’t think I can drink this. It looks sickening. Still, a few hours on Saturday isn’t going to change anything.

“Put your potions in a stasis and get out. Class is dismissed,” Professor Snape barks at the class.

Here it is. What could possibly go wrong in potions class today is what is going to happen in the next few minutes. I’m sure of it. I put some of my potion in a phial and walk it up to his desk. I can feel my pulse thumping against the phial in my hand. I hear my peers packing up and trickling out the door groaning about Saturday. I stop at the side of Professor Snape’s desk and tentatively set my sample down to the side of an essay he is grading. He is not looking at me. I stand there for approximately ten agonizing seconds before his quill stops scratching on the parchment to look up at me.

“Think you’ve finished, have you?” he asks mockingly.

“I believe so, Sir,” I reply not looking up from my phial. I hear the door shut as the last of my peers exit the classroom. My eyes shut instinctively willing my body to be anywhere else.

“Only one way to find out then,” he says with a raised eyebrow. He scans the room then says, “There are no rooms below us, so you won’t go through the floor. Half the phial should do.”

I unstopper my phial and bring it to my grimacing lips. I am relieved that it doesn’t taste nearly half as bad as it looks. My body feels odd, like it’s dissolving. My surroundings blur somewhat and take on a shadowy effect. Professor Snape stands and circles around me rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. He returns to his seat and wheels it a little closer to me. I see him reach forward, and an icy feeling goes through my midsection. I clench my stomach at the strange penetrating sensation, and it grows harder. He tries to pull back but I am swayed with his movements toward him. 

“The state of one’s body has much to do with the mind, Miss Granger. The tension is making part of you almost solid. Loosen your grip, if you will, so I can remove my appendage from you,” he lectures.

Gods, that sounds absolutely filthy! No, it’s just me. Get your mind out of the gutter. I try to relax and feel him slip away from me. “Sir, may I ask the theory of the color one becomes?” I ask noting that I am nothing but a black vapor in this already dank room. 

I watch him lean back in his chair in front of me while tracing his lips with one long, elegant finger as if he is considering my question. “There are different theories,” he says calculating his words, “for example, one theory of yellow vapor is that the brewer is extroverted, another theory is that they are in exceptionally high spirits.” 

I wait for him to continue but he does not. Obviously I want to know about the color I have become! Why does he always have to be so damn difficult? “And black, Sir?” I ask trying to hide my impatience. 

He looks up to me, but I doubt he can see me clearly. “Agonizing despair, self-loathing, dark secrets,” he throws out nonchalantly. 

“That’s absurd!” I protest. I feel a slight panic creep into my chest.

“Indeed. Did I not say it didn’t matter?” he waves off the sudden seriousness of the conversation. “It should wear off in another moment or so. Once it does, you are free to leave,” he tells me and turns back to the essay he was grading. 

I am unsure if I should continue to stand here or move. Choosing the latter, I glide back to my desk. Now what? It’s not as though I can sit down. I huff in frustration feeling trapped. Aggravated, I say, “who in their right mind would choose to be in such a state?”

I am surprised to hear Professor Snape as my question was rhetorical, “who in their right mind would drink polyjuice potion? Merlin, forbid something go wrong, and they transform themselves into a feline.” I cringe at the slight amusement in his voice.

“I digress, Sir,” the words slip from my mouth with bitterness. I had only assumed that my potions blunder was gossip among the staff, but now I know for sure. Slowly, I feel myself becoming firm, grounded. Once I’m able to clench my fists and feel my nails digging into my palms, I pick up my bag. “I’ll be going now, Sir.”

“Very well. Shut the door behind you,” he instructs me not looking up from the parchment he is scratching away at.


	10. From Light To Dark

I climb into bed and pull the letter from Mr. Byron out from under my pillow. The events of the day replay in my mind. I shiver remembering the disturbing feel of having his hand in my gut. But as the image of him in a dripping wet shirt enters my mind, the clenching feeling in my stomach drops to my lower abdomen. What madness has me? I do not understand what the gods are playing at, or why for that matter. To escape my current thoughts, I read the letter from Mr. Byron:

Miss Finch,  
Indeed, it is an imposter. Many I know are carrying on as if nothing has happened, while others seem changed; replaced with a ghostly version of whom they once were. It is most unsettling. This is the world we are left with now, and we must find a way to live in it. Personally, I think the best way to do that is to stay busy.  
I have found that spewing an endless string of insults will result in other’s leaving you in peace. However, I must ask, is that what you really want? Others can offer you a reprieve from the darkness in your mind if you are brave enough to let them in, Lioness. It is not a path I have ever chosen, but I am no Gryffindor. That being said, it has not been a question of bravery, but one of self preservation. Is it worth the risk? We are different, you see. The same decision that is ‘brave’ for you is a ‘foolish risk’ for me. I ask you to think on it more before you go cutting yourself off from those who care about you. We are not all fortunate enough to have such people in our lives.  
Mr. Byron

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I wake Tuesday morning thinking about the letter from Mr. Byron. I decide to skip breakfast and write a return letter:

Mr. Byron,  
Self preservation? I am now under the impression that you were/are a Slytherin. Trust that I do not state that accusingly though. It does not matter to me, but I should tell you that I am muggleborn. If that is something that bothers you, we need correspond no further. I expect an answer to my question, so I’ll ask it outright. Does my being muggleborn matter to you?  
You are absolutely right, Mr. Byron. I am extraordinarily lucky to have others concerned about my wellbeing. I feel guilty looking upon them as a burden but not enough to make it not so. I just need space from them. They remind me of everything, and it cuts into me like a filet knife.   
Suddenly, I am worried that my letters to you are depressing. That was never my intention. Tell me, what has been the best or most interesting part of your days since returning to work?  
Miss Finch

I dress and head to my first lesson. The day passes too quickly, and I have a feeling it is because I do not have to suffer potions today. Tomorrow though. The thought is heavy and makes my stomach knot remembering the feeling of Professor Snape inside of me. I enjoy the company of Mr. Byron but definitely not of Professor Snape. Cognitive dissonance, I muse recalling the hospital therapist calling it. I wonder if there will ever be a way to fuse the two in my mind. I catch the Headmistress watching me at dinner time, and I make an effort to eat much on my plate. Uncomfortably full, I head back to Gryffindor Tower for the night. 

I smile seeing a letter from Mr. Byron waiting for me on my pillow. Aside from my revelation of being a Gryffindor giving him pause, which I had been expecting, he has been very prompt at returning my letters. Has he enjoyed my company as much as I have his? Is he as lonely as I am? The thought makes me sad. He obviously does not enjoy my company as his student. I briefly entertain the thought that we may enjoy conversing with each other over coffee if I was not his student, and he was not my professor. I laugh and shake my head. I sit on my bed and open his letter:

Miss Finch,  
Your assumption is correct, I was sorted into Slytherin. No, your blood status does not matter to me. Best or most interesting? Hmm…I suppose it wouldn’t count if I said our correspondence wasn’t as bothersome as I had feared it would be. I have many under my supervision at work, and one of them was successful in a task I had set. I had absolutely no faith in any of them, but I was pleasantly surprised. Once in a great while I see the work I put in actually make in impact on one of those fools. I’m not entirely surprised at which one of them it was, but it was nearly an impossible task. What was the best or most interesting part of your last few days?  
Mr. Byron

I am only relatively sure he is talking about me, but it makes me smile anyway. He never bothered to mention if my potion was acceptable. But if he is talking about me, I was the best or most interesting part of his week in a way. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I write Mr. Bryon a letter shortly after I wake:

Mr. Byron,  
You say you set them a near impossible task you did not expect them accomplish. I have to ask why you would do this. What good will come of setting people up for failure?  
The most interesting thing that has happened in my life was seeing someone out of the ordinary context I usually see him in. I was quite caught off guard. I ended up acting like a blundering idiot simply because I did not think he existed outside of the idea I have in my head of him. It was embarrassing, actually. It was almost as if I hadn’t realized he was anything other than the role he plays in my life. I still don’t know what to think of it. I have quite mixed feelings, and I’m still trying to sort through them. It is hard to reconcile one image of him with another.  
Miss Finch

I send my letter to Mr. Byron after lunch and go to the lavatory before I head to the dungeons. I still have my last encounter with Professor Snape at the forefront of my mind, and it chills me. Pushing up my sleeve, I look at my scar-free arm. I still cannot believe it is gone. I know I should thank him, but the idea of doing so feels like a bad plan. Looking in the mirror, I try to smooth my hair a bit and straighten my robes. A lecture is on the syllabus for potions today, a fact that I am thankful for. Today will be fine. Making my way down to the dungeon, I hear Ginny call my name.

“Hermione!” she shouts on the third floor landing. I wait for her to catch up, and she says, “Ron was asking me about you. He wants to know how you’re doing. Maybe you could write to him. Harry as well. I don’t much care for being the middle man.”

“Really? What is wrong with them? Why do they keep asking everyone else how I am, and not bother to write to me themselves!” I retort angrily.

Ginny sighs and replies, “they think you’re busy with schoolwork and still mad at them for…well they wouldn’t tell me, actually. Anyway, write to them. Would you?”

“Fine,” I give in and walk to the dungeons with her. 

I sit taking notes while Professor Snape gives his planned lecture. A few times, our eyes meet, and I quickly look away thanking my exhaustive note taking for the good excuse to avert his soul sucking gaze. My mind drifts to my letter to Mr. Byron, and I think of Professor Snape in Hagrid’s hut. I shrink when I feel a flush rising in my cheeks praying no one notices. As soon as class is over I flee quickly, not stopping until I reach the library.

Relieved to have survived potions relatively unscathed, I pull out 1001 healing potions and continue on my hunt for the identification of the mystery potion. By the time dinner comes around, I am on potion 120 of 1001. No luck yet. Fascinating book though.

At dinner I make small talk with Ginny and a few other Gryffindors for the first ten minutes or so. I look at the chicken on my plate and feel my insides churn. The image of bloody tendons surrounded by muscles makes me want to hurl. Carrots. Eat the carrots. I eat the diced up pieces of carrots lightly sweetened with brown sugar and butter one by one. Glancing up at the staff table I notice Professor Snape is absent. I butter a roll and eat it quickly before leaving the great hall.

Hoping to get through more of the healing potions book, I get ready for bed early. I pull it out of my bag and am greeted by an owl. After I give the owl a biscuit, he flies back out of the room. I read Mr. Byron’s letter:

Miss Finch,  
All I will say on that matter is that my job is surprisingly dangerous, and I must be strict in order to ensure the safety of both myself and those under me.  
Ah yes, that moment we come to understand that our parents aren’t perfect, when we learn our healers are not immune to disease, or when we realize our teachers exist outside of school. Perhaps I may be of some assistance. Tell me, what were your thoughts of him before? What of the thoughts of the other side of him you did not expect to see? Surely, you know we are not all what we seem, but an outside perspective is sometimes helpful when we are stuck in our mindset.  
Mr. Byron

I’ve gotten myself in quite the predicament writing to Mr. Byron about Professor Snape. I honestly had not thought that small bit of information would get me into a sticky web of semantics. What can I say about Professor Snape to Mr. Byron? After thinking on it for several minutes I respond:

Mr. Byron,  
Well, he is a formidable man. By far the most unapproachable I’ve ever met. His hard exterior is usually proper, but that day I saw a side of him I had not expected. He was rather underdressed, for him that is, and he was caring for another. If you knew him, you’d know how shocking that is. Furthermore, I keep having run-ins with this wizard who leaves me shaken and evermore curious. I cannot help but wonder if the war has changed him. I believe it has, and for the better. For a selfish reason, I want him to stay as he was in my mind.   
Miss Finch  
Next I write two quick letters to Harry and Ron telling them how wonderful it is to be back at Hogwarts. I feign excitement and ask how training is going for them. When I’m done, I return to the potions text until I fall asleep. 

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Thursday I send my letter after lunch and receive one in return while I am looking though the potions text once again. It reads:

Miss Finch,  
Perhaps he was both of these images before, but you did not see it. Even the worst of us have our moments. You would rather he be a hard and formidable man than a caring and more human version on himself? Your words, not mine. Why is he, or who he was in your mind, so important to you? You seem quite hung up on your encounter with this man, so I have to wonder. Do you fancy him?  
Mr. Byron

“Ah!” I exclaim and drop the letter on my bed. Absolutely not! Ludicrous! Vile suggestion! I quickly respond: 

Mr. Byron,  
Absolutely not! That is utterly absurd!  
Miss Finch

Luckily, I remember myself in my haste and do not send the letter right away. I return to the hunt for the mystery potion trying to push Mr. Byron’s words from my mind. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

First thing Friday morning I send my adamant objection to Mr. Byron. After dinner I am right back at looking for that blasted potion. Not wanting to spend an entire evening the same way as the last few, I rummage around my trunk and pull out the other book I bought, From Light to Dark, when I went to Hogsmeade. I skim the index, but I am interrupted by Mr. Byron’s reply. It reads:

Miss Finch,  
The lady doth protest too much!  
Mr. Byron

“Incendio,” I set the letter ablaze. Watching it burn calms me somewhat. The nerve of him. Ever arrogant! Ha, not that he knows. If he knew it was he whom we speak of, he would not be throwing Shakespeare at me. I’m certain of it!

Shaking my head, I search the index for healing potions in From Light to Dark. There are only two. I read through the first, but it is obviously not what I’m looking for. The second has my fullest attention. I feel my heart rate increase with each word I read:

Attracto Aliusonus  
Known for its remarkable appearance of glowing yellow liquid with glittering gold webbing suspended within, Attracto Aliusonus, translated as ‘to take another’s burden’, was created in 1658 by potions master, Clemens Pictus, to relieve his wife of her suffering. The potion is said to have a unique taste some have described as happiness and even sunshine. When brewed properly, the potion allows one drinker to take on the ailment of another, leaving the latter completely rid of their injury or condition. It was banned in 1781 after healer, Agustus Malitia, was convicted of deceiving the public with claims to a potion curing dragon pox. Malitia was believed to have given the potion to unsuspecting persons, transferring dragon pox to them, to cure people who were able to pay a heavy price for his cure. Historians say he may have infected upwards of 300 witches and wizards.

My hands tremble as I set the book down. My mind is spinning. Does this mean he gave my scar to someone else? But who? He wouldn’t do that. I think back to that day, and when I envision taking the potion, I recall him holding up his own cup to me in cheers. My heart sinks into my stomach. WHY? I am horrified by what he has done. I shuffle off my bed, grab the book, and storm off to the dungeon.


	11. Driven Mad With Fury

I barge into the potions classroom, and rage takes over every fiber of my being. I slam my open book down on the essay Professor Snape is in the process of grading, and my words are venom, “How dare you, Severus Snape! You had no right!”

His eyes glance only briefly at the page I am holding open, “most people would simply say ‘thank you.’ I cannot believe that you still need to be reminded to watch your tone.” 

He is not even looking at me. His audacity fuels my anger. “I would never have consented to this! All the grief you’ve given me throughout my life in this school is NOTHING compared to this!”

He finally looks up at me and says sternly, “that is precisely why I did not tell you, Miss Granger. Now, if you are through, I have work to do.”

“How could you? Why?” I demand barely holding back from setting the open book and his desk aflame. 

“In order to make it stop reopening, I had to make it permanent. This was the logical solution.” he said dismissively. He continued quietly, “it is of no consequence: another scar means nothing to me.”

!?Permanent?! My blood is boiling. “WELL, IT. MATTERS. TO. ME!” I growl and direct my rage at a jar on the shelf adjacent his desk. The sound of shattering fills the room and, glass is falling. I watch Professor Snape aim is wand at the floor with a flick of his wrist. The glass stops just shy of the stone and reverses direction until it is in its original state hugging the contents inside. He denies me release and, all I am capable of is crying now.

I can’t cry. I won’t cry, not in front of him. The suppression of my rage and my tears cause me to flee, though not with my feet. I am no longer present. My mind is somewhere in hell, I think. There isn’t enough oxygen. All I see are swirls of darkness in the light threatening to take me; the dementors of my own mind. If they get me, I’ll be lost forever. Perhaps I should stop fighting. I’m tired of fighting. I feel one’s hand around my throat crushing the life out of me.

“Miss Granger,” I hear. The voice sounds concerned. “Miss Granger,” the voice calls again more demanding this time.

“Come back. Wait, please!” I beg the retreating black hooded figures.

“Who?” the voice asks me.

“The dementors!” I say exasperated. They are almost completely out of sight now.

“Miss Granger, you’ve just fainted. There are no dementors here,” The voice says calmly. I feel cold and haunted; neither dead nor alive. I fix my eyes in front of me willing myself to focus and see the demon who speaks to me. A blurry Professor Snape comes into focus.

Something inside of me snaps, and I a grab a fistful of his button laden robes. Yanking him down toward me, I hear his hands fall on the stone floor on either side of me. I lift my head and firmly press my lips to his. He stiffens in surprise, but I do not release my hold. His lips are warm and soft. They are a lifeline; a pulse. I feel the horror of the dementors dissolving quickly. Long fingered hands grip the sides of my face and pull me backwards slightly out of the curative kiss. When I open my eyes, I see Professor Snape looking slightly flush and startled. Realizing what I have just done, I let out a shocked squeak and look at him wide eyed. 

He swiftly stands yanking me up with a tight grip on my upper arm. I am paralyzed with fear. Why did I kiss him? It’s Byron’s fault. It’s Professor Snape’s fault. Everything is HIS fault! He steps closer to me and places his hands on my sides. My stomach flutters at his touch, but before I know it, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder like a child’s doll. In spite of myself, I do not struggle to get out of his hold. My hands push down on his lean back to help keep the blood from rushing to my head. He walks me through the door to his office, and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Is he going to have his way with me right here in his office? My breath hitches as we approach the couch. What a ridiculous thought! He’ll probably yell at me until I’m deaf! I am unsure of what is happening until I see the green flames engulf us in the fireplace. With a flash, he is carrying me into the hospital wing.

“Poppy!” I hear Professor Snape bark out into the empty room filled with neatly made beds waiting for use. A scurrying sound comes from the door off to the right. I am tossed rather ungracefully onto the first bed we come to.

“Severus, what is it?” the healer questions approaching us.

“Miss Granger worked herself into quite a state and passed out in my classroom. She must’ve hit her head: I fear she may have a concussion. She was speaking of nonsense, more so than usual, and then,” he stops and looks at me with furrowed brows briefly before continuing, “perhaps a calming drought would do her well.” 

I watch the retreating form of Professor Snape as the mediwitch tries forcing me down onto the pillow. She is saying something, but I'm not listening. I'll I can hear is my own voice in my head saying, 'I kissed him. I kissed Snape.' I finally shake the thought and remember why I had gone to see him in the first place. Yes, that's right. I am pissed, I remind myself, only I seem to have lost the energy to be in such a state. Madam Pomfrey leaves me, and I can't help but cry about all that has just happened. I feel as thought I may as well have scarred him myself. He will have to look at the awful thing every day for the rest of his life. For anyone else, fine, but I cannot stand the thought of him wearing that painful reminder of his mistakes for ME; the thought of him continuing to torture himself needlessly and using ME to do it.


	12. Getting Reacquainted

It is Monday number six of the school year. Every potions class and mealtime since the "incident", as I'm referring to it in my mind now, have been brutally uncomfortable. I have not once drawn attention to myself in class, and I have not once looked up to the staff table searching for the black eyes that have sucked the soul out of me. Oh, I've wanted to. I've been tempted like I was walking down a dark alley, and the footsteps behind me picked up their pace to eventually reach a full out sprint. I don't look back though; I'm too much of a coward. I'd rather let my demon swallow me whole than confront my own mistake. I know I owe Professor Snape an apology. He owes me one as well, I feel, having given me an illegal potion without my knowledge, but I know I will never get it. I am at a loss. I cannot very well go up to him and say, ‘I’m sorry I screamed at you, tried to break your things, and then threw myself at you.’ Can I?

I gather my things from the table in the back of the library and head down to the great hall for dinner. I decide to finally write back to Mr. Byron tonight. I have been almost as angry with him as I have been with Professor Snape. ‘Maybe you fancy him,’ my mind mocks. I fully believe if he had not said that, I would not have kissed him. He put it in my head. It was obviously an illogical conclusion on his part. Just because I was confused about what I saw, does not mean that I have romantic interests in my professor. I sit a few seats down from Ginny at the Gryffindor table and note that no food has been served yet.

Headmistress McGonagall steps up to the podium and clears her throat, “Ah-hmm. Silence please. Thank you. In light of all that we have been through as a school and a community, I see it fit to make some changes.” There is a slight murmur, and glances are cast around the hall. “The war we have only just barely climbed our way out of was started as all wars start; with a divide. Let us never again delude ourselves. Let us all have learned the lesson that when we close our eyes and cover our ears, we are not being passive: we are actively making the decision to allow others to decide for us what is right. Having seen firsthand what such mindsets can cost, it is the responsibility of each and every one of you, of all of us,” she waves her hand at the staff table, “to ensure that such a divide does not happen again in our lifetimes, especially in our school, our home. This year is going to be the start of a new school tradition of inter-house civility. It will be one of communication, understanding, and cooperation.”

I look at the staff table and notice most of the teachers seem to be in good moods, all except Professor Snape that it. He seems to be particularly put-out by whatever this is. The Headmistress continues, “Don’t look so frightened. Honestly, children. This is meant to be fun, I promise you. We will be having a scavenger hunt this year. It will be held for five hours on the last day of term before winter holiday. Your testing schedule will be adjusted to accommodate one less day of classes. You will be paired up in a team of two with someone from another house. I will not be participating, as I am overseeing the event, but I will be selecting the teams myself. The rest of the staff WILL,” she glanced over to a scowling Professor Snape, “be participating. There are fifty clues. You will all be given random starting points. Whichever team finishes first, or the team with the most clues solved at the end of the hunt will be rewarded with 100 points to each of their houses. Before you assume this will be easy, I will tell you this: it is meant to challenge you.” Several groans echo through the hall. “There will be another hurdle you must overcome, but it will not reveal until just before the hunt commences. Know this: it will test your communication skills. Once I have paired all of you, I will have the lists posted in your common rooms. Now, I believe dinner is waiting for us.” 

As much as I agree with the Headmistress’s reasoning for this event, I’m not at all looking forward to participating. I laugh to myself thinking about how annoyed Professor Snape must be with this whole thing. I pity whoever gets paired with him. I wonder if the teachers will be paired with each other or with students. I am still somewhat at a loss as for what to write to Mr. Byron. It’s been weeks that I have left his last letter unanswered. My best bet is to just change the subject from our last correspondence and hope he does not bring up my childish refusal to write back to him. 

Mr. Byron,  
How have you been? Anything interesting happen lately? I’ve had a rather dull last few days. I have taken your advice and given more attention to my friends. As much as it has pained me, I feel better for it. Or a little less guilty rather. Mostly, I have been keeping busy with work, but it is hard not to get distracted with so much always going on around me. I have several roommates, actually. The noise gets to me at times. I am never alone, yet I am alone, if you can understand that. I seem to live entirely in my head for the most part. Others say I have retreated even more into myself. I agree, but I do not find it concerning. I think it is for the best.  
Miss Finch

It is a few days before I hear back from Mr. Byron, and I had feared he had committed to abandoning our acquaintance. It wouldn’t be fair of me to blame him if he had. I write a letter to Harry and another to Ron to feign the appearance of mental health and stability. I even attend Ginny’s quidditch practice trying not to think of how pointless it is. While sitting alone in the stands, I am surprised to get a letter. I don’t even wait until I’m alone this time. 

Miss Finch,  
I’ve been fine, I suppose. I’m glad to hear you are trying to maintain your relationships. Once gone, they are hard to get back. Sometimes it is a necessity to be in our own little worlds, for a short period of time that is.  
A rather odd thing happened to me recently. I’m hesitant to write to you about it even. A young woman I have authority over at work kissed me. I’m not exactly sure how it happened to be honest. I pushed her away, obviously, as it was entirely inappropriate. I was so caught off guard: I didn’t know what to say. She looked as surprised at her actions as I was. I’ve been able to avoid her since, but I’m afraid I cannot do that forever. Perhaps I should pretend it never happened. On the other hand, it might make me feel better to yell at the little chit, to put her in her place. I’ll admit, however, that the thought isn’t as enticing as it once would have been.  
Mr. Byron

I can't help but laugh. The absurdity of it all is just too much. I am filled with gleeful pride knowing that I’d made him speechless. And he’s admitted it! I am once again left pondering the man outside of his professor persona. I need to respond definitively, so that he can move on from the subject.

Mr. Byron,  
Well, we all act rashly from time to time. Perhaps she actually was just a surprised as you were. That being said, the easiest thing to do would be to forget about it. No sense in making things more awkward. Unless you wish to interact with her more than necessary, that it is the obvious choice.  
Miss Finch

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I knock on the door to Professor Snape’s office and wait half hoping he isn’t in there. I hear him say something about ‘who..this time..’ and the door flies open.

“Miss Granger,” he greets me in a clipped tone standing in the doorway. 

“Professor Snape,” I say looking at the buttons on his collar not wanting to meet his eyes, “I was hoping I could speak to you.” I am surprised he hasn’t slammed the door in my face already.

“I have office hours, as I’m sure you are aware. Did you honestly think I would be delighted to take your undoubtedly silly questions during my free time?” he cuts into me with his words. 

“No, Sir. I came to apologize to you actually,” I reply quickly realizing that having a door slammed in my face is becoming more likely with each passing second. 

“Is that so?” he asks me quietly. It sounds like a trick question, so I wait for him to continue while looking at my shoes. He steps back allowing me just enough room to walk by him and says, “Come in then, but do try to keep your hands to yourself.”

I glare at him even though I know I deserve that comment. I feel my stomach tighten as I brush past him in the doorway. Sitting in the chair in front of his desk, I wring my hands in my lap as I wait for him to sit. The door shuts quietly, and I watch as he slowly makes his way to his chair. He’s enjoying my unease, the bastard, I thought. My eyes work their way over his desk, up his torso, and to his expectant face.

“Well?” he says raising one eyebrow.

I shift in my chair and look away from him in discomfort. “I’m sorry for shouting at you, and for attempting to destroy your property,” I say flatly. We sat in a deafening silence for a beat, then two. I look up to him. His expression is unreadable.

He finally speaks, “Is that all?”

Surprised by his question, I give him an incredulous look, even though I know very well what he is referring to. I suddenly realize that I am not sorry at all for kissing him. It was his fault, and most people wouldn’t be so offended by it! Straightening my posture, I respond, “yes, Sir.”

His nostrils flare slightly indicating his displeasure with my answer, but he says, “very well. See yourself out.”

I stand and turn to the door, but the nagging question keeps me from approaching it. Looking back at him, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

He looks at me sharply and replies, “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, Miss Granger, but being molested by a student isn’t something I would ever brag about.”

I am taken aback by his answer and roll my eyes at him. “Not that,” I huff. “I mean…that I came back for you.” 

Professor Snape leans back in his chair and appears to be considering my question. I look off to the side of the room at the scarcely used fireplace feeling as though I’ve broken some sort of unspoken rule that we are not ever to discuss this topic. “There are many reasons. Certainly you can think of at least one. The most obvious being the very same reason you’ve likely not spoken of it yourself,” he said softly, “to avoid the inevitable question of ‘why?’ to which I do not have an answer to myself.”

“I-,” I start, looking back up at him. He holds up his hand, and I stop speaking.

“I am not asking you. There is no need to give me some cliché speech about how every life has value. You were needed elsewhere by people you love, so you know that answer is incomplete at best,” he continues quietly.

“Thank you,” I tell him and genuinely mean it. He gives me a curt nod, and I leave his office unsure of how I feel about what he just said to me.


	13. A Warrior With A Bomb

I mull over the conversation I had with Professor Snape during the weekend and still don’t figured out how I feel about it. I feel something; that’s for sure, but what, I do not know. The only thing I really accomplish with my free time is make the decision to slip deliberate hints of my identity into my letters to Mr. Byron, which I did not make a sincere effort at the last time I had set out to. The fact that he does not know who I am is poking my sleeping sense of justice. I’ve lived nearly my entire life with it on high alert, and it was bound to become exhausted at some point. 

I get a response from Mr. Byron on Sunday evening. I consider myself lucky to have him continue our communication, but I also feel I’ve opened someone else’s birthday present. His kinship is not meant for me; not really. I must attempt to carefully rewrap it. It is an opened return to sender, and I place all of my eggs in the blind post office clerk’s basket. I feel guilty as I read: 

Miss Finch,  
I have come to the same conclusion and am resign to put the incident behind me. That being said, my weekend was relatively uneventful. I was able to catch up on some reading. I subscribe to several journals, but work has monopolized my time lately. I am aware of how boring that sounds, but, I assure you, there was nothing I would rather have done with my time than read while sipping coffee, which later became wine, beside a fire. I’m shameless. I know.  
I trust you are still getting on well with your friends. You mentioned before that you were feeling better for it, in spite of yourself. Have you at least been attempting to enjoy your days?  
Mr. Byron

I am relieved to see he has moved on, and I am intrigued as to which subscriptions he has taken out. The image of him sitting by a fire invades my mind, and I can see myself there with him, my toes tucked snuggly under his thigh on the other end of the couch. I shake the bizarre notion away as and write a reply. 

Mr. Byron,  
I went for a walk around the nearby lake with some friends of mine this weekend. They were cheerful, as always. It would be remiss of me not to acknowledge I enjoyed myself. It would also be remiss of me to deny I struggled with it afterwards. Some regard me as a heroine, but I feel I am a fraud. Guilt bubbles up like acid in my gut, and I can’t help but feel unworthy of both their praise and my pleasure. This war has robbed me of any self-worth I had, so much so, that I often question whether I really even survived it.  
I will endeavor to engage myself with others during lunch, but that is all I can commit to at the moment. How is it that you seem to have come out so unscathed?  
Miss Finch

I send my letter of reply out on Tuesday morning. Classes pass slowly, and I head to the common room to work on my arithmancy homework before dinner. When I receive a letter from Mr. Byron in response, I open and read it right where I am because I have a live grenade in my hands and no time to run. I am already at a disadvantage as my plan from the start is to throw it back and pray that I am far enough away. His letter reads:

Miss Finch  
I don’t know what you did to prompt this existential crisis you seem to be going through, but I am not convinced you are seeing things clearly. ‘Somewhere, somehow, somebody must have kicked you around some. Tell me why you lay there and revel in your abandon. Honey, it don’t make no difference to me baby. Everybody’s had to fight to be free, you see. You don’t have to live like a refugee.’ Make no mistake about it, Lioness; you are a survivor of war, which means you are a warrior worthy of respect, and that includes your own.  
I am far from unscathed, but I have been waiting a very long time to put this war behind me. I admit that I have felt a loss of purpose; however, I will find another, as will you. You need only look.  
Mr. Byron

I am at a loss for words in regards to what he has written to me. Nevertheless, I am relieved that my way forward is clear. He’s provided me with the opportunity to interject what I have not been able to be forthcoming about thus far. I hurry to reply before I have to look down upon my yellow belly once again. 

Mr. Byron,  
I’m having a crisis, and you quote Tom Petty? Although I think that song came out before I was born, I am familiar with it. As for your point, I shall have to think on it.  
Miss Finch

My letter to Mr. Byron, coupled with my hasty reply, is sure to raise his suspicions at the very least. I feel guilty as I watch the owl leave me. Did I just hurl a bludger at Mr. Byron? Does he have his head up, or will he be blindsided? The latter is unlikely, I tell myself. I’d be hard pressed to believe he’s as sorry of a person as I am, waiting around to hear from someone I presumable don’t know. 

I am walking to the great hall for dinner when I come upon a crowd gathered around the staffroom. I see Luna off to the left and make my way over to her. “Luna,” I say, “what’s going on? Why is everyone-”

“ANY IDEA…” I hear someone yell from within.

“It’s Professor Snape. We think he’s yelling at Headmistress McGonagall, but we don’t know why,” Luna answers lightly with a shrug.

“DID YOU NOT THINK…” the muffled shout of Professor Snape seeps through the door, “…A STUDENT?” 

The door to the staff room flies open and Professor Snape’s attempt to storm out of the room is impeded by the heard of voyeurs at his feet. Most go scurrying away, but I am fixed where I am, next to a Ravenclaw with an airy smile plastered on her face. We stand in stark relief from one another. Professor Snape glances at me momentarily before needlessly righting his impeccable robes and continuing on his way. 

I am already certain that Mr. Byron, or Professor Snape rather, has at least deduced that Ms. Finch is a student. I’m under no delusions, though. I am almost as sure that he has concluded that I am said student. Who else could it be really? There is no way of knowing for sure, but it matters not. I succeeded in what I set out to do; I effectively leveled the playing field between us. He’s no longer pitching uphill. 

Professor Snape is not at dinner when I sit quietly eating with Ginny by my side. I don’t know what to expect from him, nor do I know what to expect from Mr. Byron. 

I am not surprised in the least when I do not hear from him throughout the rest of the week. I remain unaware of whether Professor Snape has assumed my identity and is avoiding me, as I am still keeping my head down; down between my knees.


	14. Truth Will Out

“You’re sure you don’t want to come? You know you don’t have to dress up, right?” Ginny asks me frowning. She really does look adorable dressed as a cat. I think of what a lucky guy Harry is to have her.

 

“I’m positive. Have fun though. I think I’m just going to read and then go to bed. I have a bit of a headache,” I say rubbing my temples. Ginny leaves with the others, and I hide my face under my pillow. Now alone, I start to cry, but only a few tears fall. Empty; dry to the bone, I think to myself.

 

I am lost in my own thoughts, and my feet carry me out of Gryffindor Tower an hour later. The halls are deserted, and I realize how spooky this castle really is to walk alone. The air is cool and crisp, and I regret not leaving the tower sooner, not to join the others but to take full advantage of the solitude in each of the corridors even though it’s making my hair stand on end. A thought of Mr. Byron creeps into my mind, but let the though pass as I quickly move onto the next. I absolutely do not want to linger in him. I do not want to get hung up on my thoughts about Professor Snape right now.

 

I am hurting, and I can’t do anything about it. It would be ridiculous to say that Mr. Byron was my friend, but that is exactly what I feel I have lost. I suddenly have the desire to gaze upon the moon shining down on the grounds and the forest. I wonder if it is a cloudy night as I make my way up the spiral staircase.

 

A chilly wind licks at the exposed skin on my neck as I step out onto the viewing deck of the astronomy tower. _Dumbledore died here. Professor Snape became a murderer here. Harry lost his parents on this night seventeen years ago. Yet everyone is celebrating; celebrating in that horrible room as if none of it had ever happened._ The grounds are quiet; nothing to distract me from my horrid thoughts. Tears prickle at my eyes again, and there is a boa around my chest constricting painfully.

 

“I’m surprised to see you are not enjoying the festivities, Miss Granger,” Professor Snape drawls stepping into view. The moonlight dances across the snowy skin of his face and his hands, which I watch him bury in the pockets of his cloak.

 

“Professor Snape,” I say somewhat startled by his annoying stealth. “I don’t feel much like celebrating,” I admit to him. I turn back to look out over the grounds once again. _Please leave me alone_ , I wish to myself. Soft footsteps approach behind me, and I close my eyes willing him to leave. I came here to get away from my thoughts of him, not to add to them.

 

“The rest of your peers seem to be enjoying themselves. Perhaps you should reconsider,” he suggests sounding much closer now. I open my eyes to see him standing looking out into the night only a foot to my left. He has one hand on the railing, but his posture is not relaxed. It is as rigid as it always is. His posture does not say ‘let’s enjoy the silence of the night’ as I wish it did. It says ‘I expect.’ I do not know what that expectation is, but I am sure I’m to find out soon enough.

 

When I can stand the tension no longer, I admit defeat, “It doesn’t feel right.” I fix my eyes on Hagrid’s hut and continue, “When it was over, we gathered there. We brought the fallen there…to the place where we are supposed to eat; supposed to celebrate.” I said it; the thought I could not escape while I was in the great hall for every fucking meal. I sigh and speak more quietly, “A pair of second year Ravenclaw students like to play chess where…where we lay Fred’s body. Remus and Tonks…well the Huffelpuff quidditch team are a rowdy bunch.” I fake a smile, but I cannot bring myself to look at him because I wish I could take back my confession.

 

“I will consider myself lucky to have missed all of that then,” he said seriously. We stood in silence looking out over the grounds for another minute before he spoke again. “I sense there is more bothering you than just that.”

 

“What makes you say that?” I ask annoyed. I’d just given him my left leg, and now he was asking me for my right.

 

He raises an eyebrow at me and slides his eyes down my form, “If it was just the great hall that bothered you, you’d simply eat elsewhere. I find it hard to believe that bereavement alone has you wasting away to nothing.”

 

“How dare you insinuate that-that losing loved ones isn’t horrible enough or that I’m starving myself!” I look at him with abhorrent shock. I want to slap him. “To make light of everyone lost…” I step back from the balcony.

 

“I wasn’t,” he snaps at me. “Everyone is grieving, and they are trying to move on. But you are up here instead of trying, so I have to assume that it is something different from what everyone else is struggling to live with.”

 

I turn to flee, but he quickly grabs me by the hand and says, “Stop running from it, whatever it is. You can’t run forever.” He lets my hand fall to my side giving me permission to leave, to run, run like the coward I am.

 

I look at him with tears in my eyes and feel my lip quiver. _If he only knew..._ “I almost left you there,” I whisper disgusted with myself looking down to my shoes. The horrible truth is out, and I have no way of taking it back. “I was going to let you die.”

 

“You didn’t though,” he replies calmly.

 

I look to his face which is still cool and detached. _He doesn’t understand. Tell him the truth, Hermione._ “Only because I didn’t want to become _you_ , or who I _thought_ you were rather. Imagine my surprise when I found out I almost let the man who changed the fate of the war die in a shithole…ALONE! If you had just stayed a bastard,” I feel myself shouting at him, “I would’ve been able to carry on with thinking I was a decent person; that I had done the right thing.” I gulp air down and continue in a more diplomatic tone, “You didn’t deserve my disregard for your life.” Tears slip down my face in a hurry. It is too much, and I close my eyes.

 

I’m suddenly blocked from the wind. A gentle hand rests on the back of my neck and another around my back. Only vaguely aware of my physical state any longer, I sob into the buttons covering his chest. Professor Snape is hugging someone. That someone is me, of all people, and after I’ve just told him I had _wanted_ him to die. _I don’t understand what’s happening._ I don’t understand this world that has been left upside down after the war. I feel more lost than ever before. A sharp pang in my knee brings me back to the present. _How did this happen_ , I wonder as I continue to cry into Professor Snape’s shoulder while sitting awkwardly in his lap on the cold stone floor of the astronomy tower.

 

The smell of sandalwood and leather fills my lungs. _Professor Snape_. I snuggle into the soft warmth. Blinking my eyes open, I am puzzled to find myself in my bed. Confusion rattles my brain, and I draw up the neck of my shirt to my face. _I smell like him_ , I say to myself as I roll over into a fetal position and pull the covers over my head.


	15. A Blast From The Past

I spend Sunday deliberately trying not to think about what happened the night before and bury myself in an essay for History of Magic, which isn’t due for another two weeks. I receive a letter from the Headmistress on Monday before dinner requesting my presence in her office. The thought that Ginny may have spoken to her again crosses my mind, but I just don’t give a damn at this point. The stairs leading up to her tower are already set, so I have to climb. I pass by another student as I make my way up the tower and go right in, as the door has been left wide open.

“Miss Granger,” she greets me. “Have a seat,” she said waiving the door shut behind me. “It has come to my attention that I may have overstepped my bounds when I pushed you into joining the Survivors Of War Organization.” I am stunned that she is admitting her mistake, and I’m worried what all Professor Snape told her. “It was an oversight on my part that the pairs the organization divided people into could be or have been problematic,” she went on. I don’t want to say anything just yet, so I nod. “I would like to offer you my apology and release you from the obligation of carrying on with your involvement in the program.”

I am both relieved and sad that my correspondence with Mr. Byron has come to an end, not that he would have written me back anyway. It was the final nail in the coffin of the only relationship I had been able to sustain lately. I stand to leave feeling somewhat bitter toward the Headmistress.

“Leave the door open for the next student, Miss Granger,” she tells me.

I realize as I walk to the door that she may not know I was the one paired with Professor Snape. Seeing two other students now waiting outside her door, I start to think he did not tell her who I was. Once I enter the common room, I see several students gathered around the announcement board. “What’s going on?” I ask Ginny.

“The pairs for the hunt have been posted. I got stuck with a first year Ravenclaw,” she grumbled. After the crowd disperses, I go to look at who I’ve been paired with. Running my finger alone the dotted like next to my name, my eyes land on the words ‘Harold Acreman, Hufflepuff 4th year,’ and I feel relieved it isn’t someone I already know I don’t like. 

I avoid making eye contact with Professor Snape throughout the week, and I am cleaning up after I finished brewing the assigned potion for the day. Trying to put the pickled slugs back on the top shelf in the storage room when a blast sounds, I am violently thrown to the floor when the vibration rocks the ladder under my feet. I crawl behind the crate of horned bicorn and cover my head, rocking back and forth willing it all to stop. Everywhere I look, blood is seeping into and staining everything. It gurgles in Lavender’s throat as Greyback thrashes above her, it drips down Neville’s knuckles as he grasps the sword of Gryffindor, and it expands under the lifeless body of Professor Snape. Shouts, screams, and cries echo in my mind and bile raises in my throat. 

“Hermione, we've got to go,” Ginny begs trying to get me to hurry and pay no attention to the fallen at my feet as we make our way into the castle. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says calmly. 

But it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all. How can she be so clam walking by her dead brother’s body? It must be a trick. Polyjuice potion, most likely. “Don’t tough me!” I yell. “Get away from me, you monster.”

“I don’t know what happened. I came in to check on her, and she was like this,” the girl says.

“Go on to your next class, Miss Weasley,” Professor Snape says. 

It cannot be! What sort of hell is this? My professor, blood trailing down his robes, is telling an imposter of a student to get to class when everyone else is running for their lives around them. Once the girl causally walks away, my professor reaches out to touch me. I shriek and look up into his black eyes, “I don’t want your blood on my hands!” 

He releases me but doesn’t pull away. His eyes have me suspended in a vortex of terror. Curses are flying everywhere, boulders are rolling across the ground like marbles, and a loud snap whips through me, nearly cracking my teeth. He continues to hold his hand out to me as he says, “Come on. It’s time to go. I know a safe place we can hide.”

I want to believe him, but I’m afraid to move. I shake my head at his hand and whine, “I can’t. I can’t.”

Professor Snape speaks more urgently now, “We have to go: we’re running out of time. Now, get up off of the floor, so we can get out of here.” 

Deciding I would rather trust him than continue to sit and wait for my own death, I take his hand and am hoisted up onto my feet. He pulls me gently out of the courtyard and into the entrance hall. We navigate through debris and bodies as we make our way to the door off to the left. Once inside, the noise from the battle is muffled. I yell and thrash about as I suddenly find myself bound to a chair. My arms and legs are immobile, and I panic. 

He approaches me with something in a phial, and I shake my head profusely. “I’m sorry, but I have to do this, Miss Granger, before you hurt yourself or someone else.” I want to ask him what he’s talking about, but I don’t open my mouth in fear he will seize the opportunity to force the potion on me. His lanky fingers wrap snugly around my throat and tip my head back. Tears are spilling out of me freely. 

Professor Snape casts some cruel spell to pry my mouth open, and the potion is poured into my mouth. I splutter, but most of the poison goes down my throat once I’m forced to swallow. The hand around my throat disappears, and my chest heaves trying to take in enough oxygen. The room around me becomes clearer every second, and I’m looking down into a pair of black eyes. Professor Snape is kneeling in front of me, and I’m both completely confused and exhausted. 

“What happened?” I ask as my mind clears enough to realize I’m sitting in Professor Snape’s office. 

With a look of pity, he answers, “Some dunderhead set of a faulty set of fireworks in the abandoned classroom above us.” He hesitated before saying, “I think you were having a flashback. The blast must have triggered it.”

I nodded looking away from him. I’m ashamed that I’ve apparently caused as scene. Surely I must have, considering I’m tied to a chair in his office.


	16. A Wild Pitch

I am lucky Professor Snape does not ask me questions about what has happened, as I am unprepared to answer them. He gives me a note to excuse my tardiness in my next class, and I cannot help but wonder what he must think of me. Who has a meltdown during class over some bloody fireworks?

I am eating a muffin while looking through the Prophet on Saturday morning. I glance at the help wanted section knowing there will be nothing I am able to fit around my school schedule. Because I’ve given up my parents, my support system, I am not looking forward to being thrown out into the world to fend for myself. The first few months are likely going to be the worst, as I won’t have any money. I know I’ll end up staying with Harry until I find a job, but I dread asking to impose myself on him. I had always thought of myself as someone who was independent, but I guess I was wrong.

One ad catches my eye. It reads: ‘Teaching assistant wanted. Part time, flexible hours, adequate pay, room and board. Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Inquiries should be sent to Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress, no later than December 1st.’ I wonder who could be looking for help and scan the staff table, but no one stands out as the type to take an assistant. It could potentially work, but it could also become a disaster. 

“Are you sure you’re alright after yesterday?” Ginny asks me for the tenth time.

Closing my eyes and rubbing my temples in frustration, I say, “Yes. I’m still fine, Ginny.” Judging by the look on her face, I did not say that very politely. “So are you ready for the match tonight?” I ask changing the subject, hoping she forgets I was just short with her. 

“Yeah, I think we have a fair chance of winning this one. Slytherin has been brutal with us so far this year, but I’ve had them all doing flying sprints, hoping to improve their agility,” she tells me while buttering a piece of toast. 

Later that evening, I head down to the pitch with Luna and a couple of the other Gryffindor girls. The noise is setting my nerves on fire, and we haven’t even reached our seats yet. I don’t know how I’m going to sit through this match if it’s a long one. Within fifteen minutes, we reach our destination, the match starts, and side conversations break out. It’s a bit overwhelming, but I try to concentrate on Ginny. She has already scored a goal for Gryffindor, and the Slytherin beaters are gunning for her.

The noise around me grows as I lose focus on the game. The flags around the stadium are waving wildly in the wind above us, their flapping drowned out by the roaring crowd. It’s a cold night, but the body heat of the students seated too closely together is making me sweat. 

“That’s not fair! Did you see that?” a girl behind me shouts.

Whoever she is sitting next to answers, “That was total rubbish. If we’d done that, we would have gotten a penalty for sure.

“Is he blind?” remarks the boy over my left shoulder. “How could he not see that bludger headed straight for his face?”

“So I told him no. If he wants to date around, I’m not going to wait for him,” one girl in front of me tells another, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I mean, I’m not gonna sleep with him again after he’s had it everyone else. That’s disgusting.” 

The other girl responds, “Maybe you should tell him you’re going to play the field yourself. Let him see how it feels.”

Luna informs the girl sitting next to her, “I heard Professor Snape insisted he get detention for the rest of term for interrupting his class.”

The girl asks, “And McGonagall went with it?” She shakes her head. “It was just a silly prank.”

“Yeah, apparently she didn’t think it was very funny,” Luna frowned. 

There is too much going on around me, and I feel myself starting to hyperventilate. Looking for a way out, I check to see which side of me is going to be easier to navigate through the seated students. Opting for the right, I tell Luna I need the loo and stand to make my way out to safety. I mutter several apologies as I bump drinks and knees, step on toes, and block views trying to get free. Now in the stairway, I climb down as quickly as possible without running, lest I trip and fall flat on my face. The noise level grows more tolerable as I descend the stairs under the stands, but the sweat on my skin is now icy cold in the unprotected evening air.

Finally on the ground, I lean back against one of the support columns. I take several deep breaths and close my eyes. Counting backwards from a hundred by threes seems to help slow my franticly beating heart some. A shadow passes across my closed lids, but I assume it is the pitch lights dancing through the beams, tickling the damp ground like piano keys. It is a true master, never missing a beat and composing a perfect symphony each time. 

“An odd place to watch the match from. Don’t you think?” Professor Snape’s voice asks me, cutting through the chilly air between us. 

My eyes pop open in alarm. This is just what I need, I tell myself, for Professor Snape to have more reason to think me insane. As he moves to stand in front of me, my gaze shifts to his charcoal scarf wrapped snuggly around his neck. Now shivering, I wish I had thought to bring mine. Although, it probably would have suffocated me like a noose a few moments ago. I wonder why he is down here; did he follow me? “You’re down here too,” I say feeling a little defensive and wrapping my arms around my body.

“Only because I was running a bit late,” his tone is a warning that he is in no mood for my attitude. His posture, however, relaxes slightly. 

“I was just on my way out, Sir,” I say. “I’m not feeling well.” His hair looks feathery soft in the flickering, swaying light, and I cannot help but imagine reaching out to touch it. My fingers itch with curiosity, but I sternly remind myself that the man standing in front of me would sooner cut off my hand than indulge me. Something about his presence makes the harsh sound of the match soften into the sound of a wave reaching high up on the sandy shore. How can this man make me feel incredibly tense and also at ease?

He looks at me as if searching for some ailment, but he nods even thought there is nothing to be found in his search. “Stop by the hospital wing on your way back. I’ve just restocked the cold and flu shortening potions,” he orders me.

I want to protest but fear it will lead to more questions. “Yes, Sir,” I agree to heed his advice. I watch him turn and glide up the stairs, his robes covering the work of his feet and legs. Supposing I can just ask Madam Pomfrey for a headache potion, I make my way to the hospital wing looking forward to being out of the cold.


	17. Reluctant Acceptance

Over the next three weeks, I thoroughly run through the pros and cons of applying for the teaching assistant position. I write a brief letter explaining my interest to the Headmistress and request an interview. With school rarely challenging me anymore, I feel I have no distractions from my fractured mind. I need a distraction, and Byron has left me to suffer in solitude. Not that I blame him, though! I am spending more time with Ginny, but it is helping very little. When she speaks to me, I often find myself drifting from the conversation. Harry, quidditch, and gossip are hardly of any interest to me these days. I am as happy as I can be to get a letter back stating my interview will be tomorrow at five. Not having enough time tomorrow during the day, I stay up late trying to think of all the questions she may ask me. 

I am early to see the Headmistress, and she has me sit and wait for her in her office while she gathers a few papers and signs the bottom of several. I have settled on hoping it is Professor Flitwick that is requesting an assistant. I enjoy charms, and he is easy enough to get along with. 

"The position pays three galleons an hour with a minimum of ten hours per week. You'll be expected to grade papers, clean, and prepare whatever is necessary for upcoming classes," she informs me. After glancing up at the clock on the wall, McGonagall tells me, “Professor Snape will be here shortly.” An icy dagger stabs into my heart at her words. So much for my freedom when I leave here. Of course, it is him. Who else would it be that I find myself here waiting for? The urge to flee propels me forward in my seat, as one does just before standing, but I am stuck on the edge when she speaks again. “We’ve already had five interviews, but none of them went well,” she admits to me with a frown. “Three of them took off as soon as they found out which teacher needed an assistant, and the other two were apparently dunderheads.” She rolls her eyes as if I am supposed to be amused by that. I'm not, though. My stomach turns on itself, and acid is eroding its lining. I’m positive I have turned a lovely shade of puce when she says, “Not to worry, Miss Granger. You’re sure to get the position. He’s not going to find anyone as meticulous as yourself, not to mention, you may very well be the only option left at this point. I haven’t received any other letters of interest, and it's nearly the end of the month.”

Professor Snape walks through the open door briskly but stops dead in his tracks upon seeing me sitting opposite McGonagall. “I don’t think-,” he starts cautiously. He is apparently just as unsettled to see me, as I am to see him. 

“Sit down, please, Severus,” she tells him gesturing to the chair next to mine. He complies without his eyes glancing back in my direction but wraps his robes tightly around himself while crossing his arms over his chest. If I weren't so uncomfortable I would laugh as the thought of a 'security blanket' come to mind. “Thank you,” she says. “Miss Granger will make an excellent assistant; she is capable and competent enough to brew for Poppy when she needs something. I trust you have no objections.”

Professor Snape shifts his weight in the chair and crosses his legs, angling his body away from me, and says, “Minerva, she is still one of my students. It is out of the question; it would not be appropriate. Surely, you can see that.”

McGonagall nods her head. “You do have a point,” she admits. “Miss Granger,” she addresses me. “Would you be willing to test out of seventh year potions?” Too stunned to say anything I nod and glance over to Professor Snape just in time to see him close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. “Problem solved,” she says to Snape turning her palms up with a shrug. “Now, if you have no further objections, you both only need to sign here,” McGonagall explains pointing to the bottom of the last paper she just signed.

We both hesitate to sign the paper, as it is obvious there is some sort of oddity between us. An oddity to trump all others that have ever occurred within this school. What choice do I have though? It’s this or leave Hogwarts without a dime to my name. I’ll be mooching off of Harry for an unknown amount of time. The thought makes me nauseated. Signing first, I ask, “When will I have to take the test by?” 

“I’d like for you to start the position at the beginning of the next term. So you have until the New year to study for the test,” she says. “Once you are ready, I will arrange it for you. You’ll have to go down to the Ministry, as it is not finals week, and the administrators will not be here at the school,” she answers. Professor Snape stands and leans over the desk to sign the papers, obviously not having found another reasonable objection to my appointment as his assistant. 

I thank her and move to leave as we are dismissed. An awkward dance at the door with Professor Snape has me flustered and turning from grayish green to pink, and he motions for me to go through the door and down the stairs first rather impatiently. It is completely nerve wracking knowing he is behind me the entire trek down from her tower. We remain in silence and say nothing to one another before parting when we get off of the stairs and head our own ways. 

I must be mad, I tell myself. How am I supposed to do this? Am I some sort of glutton for torture? I don’t want to admit that some sick part of me is hoping that this will fill the hole in me that Mr. Byron has left within me. It is selfish and disturbing, but that’s who I am now, Isn’t it? Dumbly, I suddenly realize that Professor Snape was the one who wanted an assistant, and a hundred questions swirl around in my mind. Is he having problems with his health? Is he planning on retiring? Did he need more free time to devote to creating new potions? I hope I will find out, but I doubt I will learn anything about the man, as he has always been a mystery. 

Not feeling like going back to Gryffindor tower before dinner, I take a stroll around the courtyard. It’s been snowing a lot lately, and I cannot help but smile as I see a lopsided snowman wearing a Hufflepuff scarf, a sombrero, and sunglasses. It reminds me of Tonks, and a sob gets stuck in my throat thinking about Teddy growing up not knowing his parents just like Harry had. He will live in a happier home; though, I tell myself. They say he has not shown any signs of lycanthropy, which is a big relief. Remus had been so worried about it, that he was questioning his decision to even have a child. For some reason, I cannot help but hope he is sorted into Hufflepuff like his mum.


	18. Take Me By The Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with Hermione through the worst of her problems. The story between her and Snape is going to start heating up from this point onward. Thank Merlin!

I spend the coming weeks studying potions. Wednesday afternoon, December 16th, I meet the Headmistress in her office, as she will be escorting me to the Ministry of Magic to take my potions N.E.W.T. and notice there is an unusual amount of noise in the halls. I know it’ because tomorrow is the last day of classes for the term, but I still find it quite annoying. While most of the student body is not looking forward to the scavenger hunt on the Friday, they sure seem to appreciate one less day of classes this week. Speaking of which, who was my partner again? Some fourth year boy I think. I’ll have to check once I get back from the Ministry, I think as I knock on McGonagall’s office door. 

Headmistress McGonagall opens the door, and I am not expecting to see Professor Snape leaning against her desk with his arms crossed. “Right on time, Miss Granger,” she says. “I expect you’re ready to leave?” she questions.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply holding Professor Snape’s gaze. 

McGonagall finishes buttoning up her coat as she speaks to me, “We’ll be apparating, as I cannot stand to floo, if I can help it.” She reaches out to me. “Don’t let go or you will both be sucked back into Hogwarts rather violently,” she warns me. 

Alarmed, I try to ask what she’s talking about, but I lose the thought as Professor Snape takes hold of my hand, lacing his fingers through mine tightly before McGonagall does the same with my other hand. Having forgotten the headmistress can apparate in and out of Hogwarts, I am thrown off balance as we land on the shiny tile floor of the Ministry of Magic's entrance hall. They both let go of my hands, and I’m trying to catch my breath from the sudden and unexpected departure. 

I follow closely behind McGonagall and Snape to the elevator. When it opens, I am surprised to see Mr. Weasley and Kingsley standing inside having a conversation. “Arthur, Kingsley, what a pleasant coincidence,” McGonagall says with a smile. Professor Snape nods to Kingsley as Arthur steps forward to give me a rather uncomfortable hug. I awkwardly try to step away, but he holds me tight. 

“Miss Granger is on her way to take her potion's N.E.W.T., Mr. Weasley,” Professor Snape informs smoothly. “Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t suffocate her. It would be a pity if she never made it to the fifth floor seeing as how she’s only been studying for the test for over seven years.”

“Oh,” Arthur broke away holding my upper arms. “Are you really?” he asks. I nod to him, and he tells me, “Good luck then, not that you’ll need it.”

“Thank you,” I reply to him as the elevator speaks, informing us we have arrived at our destination. I wave goodbye to Mr. Weasley as I leave the lift with my Headmistress and Professor. Two hours later, I emerge from the testing room feeling confident I have earned at least an exceeds expectations. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone remains in the Great Hall after lunch of Friday waiting for McGonagall to get the scavenger hunt started. 

“Quiet, please. Quiet,” she says from the podium while looking over the population of the school. “Thank you. As you all know, today’s activities are intended to promote acceptance and inclusion, to strengthen the bonds between us. Therefore, I expect all of you to display respectful behavior, not only with your teammate, but with other teams as well. I mentioned before that this would be especially challenging, and I meant it. Each team will have one member whose sight is compromised, and the other will not be able to speak.” Several people ask simultaneously, in one way or another, how this is going to go work. McGonagall holds up her hand. “There will be no exceptions and no excuses. This will force you to find an alternative way of communicating with one another. Remember, each team will be at the same disadvantage, and the winner need only be the furthest along at the end. One hundred points will be awarded to each of the winning team’s members houses. We will begin at 12:30 and the hunt will be over at exactly 5:30 this evening,” she informs. 

“Now,” McGonagall said, “I ask you to find your teammate that I have selected for you, and form a line in front of me to set the charms on each of your teams. Not to worry, though. The charms to hinder your senses will automatically dissipate at the end of the hunt. Once I have placed the charms on your team, I ask that you gather in the entrance hall until we are all ready to begin the hunt. At that time, you will all be given a randomly selected first clue. Please, find your partners,” she instructs and gets down from the podium. 

Unsure what Harold Acreman even looks like, I wait for him near the back assuming he will know who I am. After what feels like a half an hour, the crowd dwindles down to almost nothing, and I still do not have my partner. I will have to ask McGonagall after she was done with the other pairings.

Four of us are left standing in the Great Hall all appearing to be missing our partners. “Right,” she says. “You four have to be repaired. Ms. Baker is with Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary with a case of furry mumps, and Mr. Acreman still has detention with Mr. Filch for his poorly planned fireworks display. Mr. Emerson, you’ll be with Ms. Foster. Severus, you’re with Ms. Granger.”

I stand quietly not knowing how I can possibly get out of this or even if I want to while McGonagall charms the other pair of students. Once they are walking past me to the exit, McGonagall says, “Lucky for the two of you actually. This ought to give you a chance to get better acquainted. I was rather busy this morning, but I got a letter from the Ministry. You earned yourself an outstanding on your potions N.E.W.T.,” she says with a smile. My happiness is short-lived, as she tells me I am the one to be temporarily blinded. I’m terrified of the thought. I had assumed we would be able to choose. I know I’m starting to visibly panic, as my hands are shaking and my voice cracks as I ask her if she’s sure she wouldn’t I rather be muted. “Nonsense, you’ll be just fine, Miss Granger. Now that I think of it, you’ll be a hard team to beat. Perhaps I should have considered that,” she says regretfully. 

“Minerva,” Professor Snape says as he slowly looks away from me and to her, who is standing in front of the pair of us. “You know how I feel about being manipulated into this nightmare. If you force me to listen to Miss Granger for five consecutive hours, I will resign right now,” he threatens. 

“Oh!” she exclaims rolling her eyes. “Fine.” Within seconds, I am rendered mute, and Professor Snape is apparently blind. His eyes look the same but are unseeing. I am not sure if I should be insulted by what he said or thankful. I cannot help but feel as though he did that for my benefit, but that would just be silly. Wouldn't it? 

“Alright,” McGonagall announces, “Let’s get to the entrance hall, and get this started.” I start to follow her, but I stop when I hear my name.

“Miss Granger,” Professor Snape barks with an irritated expression. “Although I am quite familiar with this school, I’d rather not fall on my face,” he hisses while holding up his hand. I look from his hand to his face perplexed. My mouth opens to ask him, but I realize that is useless. He shakes his hand and snaps, “You are going to have to lead me. You are the one who wanted to see. It’s only fair that you do not allow me to stumble about blindly.” 

I take a deep breath before taking his hand in my own.


	19. Bittersweet Temptation

I grab Professor Snape’s hand and lead him to the entrance hall while trying not to acknowledge the heat radiating up my arm from our union. I’ve never been happier about being surrounded by chaos, as I’m sure people would otherwise notice me holding his hand. _I can’t even imagine how odd we must look!_ _If I walked into a museum and saw a Rembrandt hanging next to…well, a hot fucking mess, I would be both confused and put-off by the lack of consideration on the curator’s part. That must be how we look,_ I tell myself.

The thought of my palms becoming sweaty worries me. _What if his hands become sweaty too? It would just be improper to have our sweat mixing. And in public, no less! Not that mixing sweat privately is any more proper. At least our fingers aren’t laced together. I didn’t mind it when we apparated to the Ministry of Magic, though. Did I?_ I laugh, but no sound comes out when I notice the scowl on his face. _He looks extremely uncomfortable. He must be trying to intimidate people into keeping their traps shut. For all they know, he could be the one muted._

The appearance of a piece of parchment is accompanied by a small popping noise in front of us, and it begins to speak without prompting. “Each clue will be audible, as one of you cannot see to read and the other cannot speak to tell. There are fifty items on the back of this piece of parchment that you will seek to collect. Each clue relates to the location of one of the items on the list. You may choose to skip a clue and return to it at a later time, if you wish. You are not to leave the school grounds under any circumstances. This hunt is to be carried out without the use of magic; therefore, each use of your wand to aid you in any of your endeavors will result in one collected item being discounted. Simply say ‘repeat’ to hear a clue again and ‘skip’ to move on to the next clue. Say ‘We are ready’ when you would like the first clue and also when you have found an item and wish to move on,” the paper instructs us.

I grab the papers and look up at Professor Snape, whose brows are furrowed. The noise is alarming with everyone’s papers talking at once. Teams are scurrying off in different directions, so I pull him back into the great hall. I’m not sure how we are supposed to communicate. Surely there is a better way than dragging him around the school. I have no desire to do that, but I know that is what is going to happen with the majority of the other teams.

“Minerva has obviously lost her mind,” he grumbles and runs a hand through his hair. “Just…tap on my arm or hand to answer, once for yes and twice for no.” I tap on his arm once in acknowledgement. “Are you ready?” he asks, his voice conveying reluctance, obviously not wanting to do this. “Perhaps if we win quickly it will be over sooner.” I tap once in agreement. “We are ready,” he tells the paper I am now holding.

The voice is much easier to understand this time it speaks. It says, “I am a place where many lives begin and sometimes end. My youngest brother gets to meet all of you, but I only see a select few.”

“Any ideas?” Snape asks. I tap twice, and he says, “Repeat.”

“I am a place where many lives begin and sometimes end. My youngest brother gets to meet all of you, but I only see a select few,” it says again.

“Meet all of you…” he mumbles. “Life begins? Could it be a greenhouse?” he asks me. I tap once on the back of his hand as he says, “Greenhouse six or seven, most likely. After you," he says sarcastically holding out his hand.

I roll my eyes and take him by the hand back out of the Great Hall and through the front entrance of the castle. We are blasted by chilly winter air, even though it is early afternoon. The overcast sky is making it colder than usual, and a light snow is coming down to cover the dirty, trudged through old snow and making it look fresh once again. I shiver wishing I had a heavier coat, but I press onward with Professor Snape close on my heel. Once inside greenhouse seven, I let go of his hand to dust the quickly melting flake from my person. He shakes his head sending water drops and white puffs about him. Without thinking, I reach up and brush off his shoulders. He flinches at my touch, and I quickly realize my mistake.

Unable to apologize, I look over the back of the parchment at the items we need to collect. It is silly he cannot read the list. Then again, he can’t see to find the items either. Accepting that I am on my own for this part, I scan the room for anything that looks out of place. After several moments, I spot a hummingbird replica and move to collect it. Taking his hand, I set the item in it to let him know we can move on and hopefully go back to the castle.

Professor Snape puts the bird in his pocket and asks, “Can we move on?” When I tap once on his arm he says, “We are ready.”

“I am a museum, a collector of tokens, a capsule of the honors from the past. I guard your gold, your silver, and even your bronze, long after you are gone,” the parchment says.

I know the clue is referring to the trophy room, have been in there a few times over the years. Grabbing Professor Snape’s hand, I pull him back to the door of the greenhouse. The snow has let up, and our tracks we made on the way here have all but disappeared by now.

“I presume you are taking me to the trophy room,” he says as we are making the cold walk back to the castle entrance. We pass two groups of students, and I tap on his hand. We continue onward through the castle and up several flights of stairs until we are stepping into the room where the air seems to glow from all of the medals and jewels.

Looking over the list once more, I let go of his hand and start to wander around the room. One of the trophies on the back wall has a pair of socks sticking out of its cup, so I grab them. Another pair pops up in its place like a tissue in a box. Although I don’t care much for this room of relics because it reminds me of the cost of winning, Professor Snape looks striking in the softly glowing light. Once again, I find myself with the urge to touch his hair, to grab a fistful of it. Shaking away the thought, I give the socks to him, and he moves on without asking this time, “We are ready.”

“It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning,” it says.

Professor Snape shakes his head. “It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” _Oh!_ I take both his hands in mine, put them together, and then open them. “A book? The library?” he asks. We are nearly half way there when he suddenly announces, “ _The Time Machine_.” I tap on his wrist once, and he says, “You could have just told me, rather than let me rack my brain for ten minutes.”

I stop and spin around at the ridiculous jab but am speechless as he nearly runs into me. He is obviously trying to contain a smile. He is teasing me, and all I can think about is kissing him in his classroom while I stare at his mouth. Professor Snape clears his throat after a few moments and asks, “Are we in the library?” I take up his hand once again and lead him the rest of the way to the library tugging a little more firmly in my frustration.

 _Wells, Wells, Wells_ , I say to myself as my fingers run across the spines of the books in the ‘W’ section of muggle literature. We discussed this book in great length in muggle studies during my third year. Pulling the book off of the shelf, I let it fall open and take the quill shaped bookmark that is on the lists of items. I give it to Professor Snape and he asks for the next clue.

“My sides are Swiss cheese; my top is a perch or maybe three. A week without bathing, and I’m as filthy as can be,” the paper tells us.

Professor Snape groaned. “That has to be the Owlery,” he grimaced. “Can we skip this one? I’d rather not go back outside.” Not wanting to go back out in the cold either, I tap on his hand. “Skip,” he says.

“Not everyone has seen me, for I dwell beneath the school. You have all heard of me, but only some have been through my passage and know I’m drafty and poorly lit,” it says to us.

We stand there quietly for a few moments. “The dungeon cave is the only thing I can think of,” he mumbles. “Have you been there? Do you know where it is?” I tap twice for no. “Take us down to the hallway where the potions classroom is,” he instructs me.

Another team bursts through the door to the library, and I can hear more people in the hallway. I take him out through a side door to avoid any uncomfortable looks. We are only half way down to the dungeons when when I decide I am tired of guiding him up and down the stairs, so he doesn’t fall on his face. At this point, _I really wish we could just quit._ I stop outside of the potions classroom.

“I take it we are in the dungeon corridor. Further down there should be a set of stairs off to the right leading down into the cave,” he tells me. I go where he tells me and open the door at the bottom of the stairs. I've never been here before, never wandered the dungeons to stumble upon this passage. I wouldn’t consider this dimly lit. The only light is coming in from the door we just came through. The tiles crack and shift under our feet, and I wonder how we are supposed to find anything down here, especially without using magic. The door shuts behind us leaving us both blind. Unable to see, I feel panic gripping me by the throat. I tighten my hold on his hand, sure that we are in the wrong place. Now disoriented, I’m having a hard time finding the door we came though. I feel what I believe is a stone wall with my left hand when I take a step in that direction.

“Have you found anything?” he asks still holding on to me, never mentioning the death grip I have on him. I tap twice on the back of his hand. Another minute of feeling around in the dark passes, and he says, “Perhaps we should go back.” I tap once on his hand. I cannot tell him that I cannot see either, and I don't know how to get us out. My fear is escalating and my hands start trembling. "What's wrong?" he asks.

A scurrying noise at my feet makes me shriek soundlessly. My heart stops, and I turn around to push Professor Snape the other direction, but I accidentally knock him into a wall. The tile at my feet trips me, and I fall into him, grabbing his arm tight enough to cause discomfort. I am leaning against his chest with my eyes shut tightly, but I can sense a glow in the room that wasn’t there just moments before.

Opening my eyes I am shocked to see a crackling blueish white electrical dome around us. His free hand is stretched out toward the empty cave, holding a shield charm up without his wand. The sight takes me back to the attack on the castle, and I take in a shaky breath. I have never seen anyone perform wandless magic like that, intentionally and powerfully. Knowing there is nothing in the room to fear now, I try to shake off the feeling of unease. I stand up straight and put my arm on his outstretched forearm, pushing down gently to let him know it is okay to stop. I see the door just off to our left before the light from his charm dies.

“Are you alright, Miss Granger?” he asks me. I tap on his arm after a few seconds, and he says, “Please tell me you didn’t almost give me a heart attack just now over what sounded like a rodent.” Embarrassed, I lead him slowly to the door without answering him. _It’s not fair though. I can’t see._ Of course, he doesn’t know that, but still. 

We are walking back up toward the potions classroom when he says, “It must have been the quidditch cave that we were supposed to go to. We can go there, if you'd like, or I suppose we could skip it altogether.”

I stop and look at him in the dim hallway of the dungeons. Part of me hates the thought of giving up, but the look on his face helps me make a decision. He looks like a little boy whose mum has dragged him around all day on boring errands when all he wanted to do was stay home and play with his train set. I have to wonder if I were someone else, would he have been difficult just to get me to quit sooner. I stop outside of the potions classroom and lean against the wall looking at him, wishing I could speak. Feeling completely overwhelmed, I fight back a few tears.

“What is it?” he asks. I don’t know how to tell him, but when I sniffle, he seems to figure it out. “Do you want to stop?” I tap on the back of his hand to let him know I don’t want to do this anymore. He nods and says, “Take us to my office, please.” I squeeze his hand and lead him back down the hall a few paces and stop outside of another door. I place his hand on the knob. A frown tugs at the corners of his lips and eyes. “Are you sure you want to quit?” I indicate yes, and he nods as he lowers the wards to his office. The act knocks us down to only two items on the list, but I really don't care about that.

Professor Snape takes the lead even though he cannot see, which I think is odd. _This is not going to be a comfortable place to spend the next…two and a half hours_ , I think to myself as I look around the room. He pulls me along the room around his desk and reaches out to a seemingly blank stone arch in the back of the room. As he pulls it aside, I realize I was looking at a tapestry camouflaged as the wall, like some sort of invisibility cloak. A painting hangs on the door, and the occupants look quite startled to see us. There is quite a bit of clanking as a knight gets up from his knees to dart behind a bush and a blushing woman smoothing down her skirt.

“Cadogan! I know it’s you. No one else clanks around so obnoxiously. Adeline, you agreed to do that elsewhere,” he said through gritted teeth. Unable to control my laughter, I leaned into his arm, the vibration of my amusement evident. “It’s not funny,” he warns me.

“Just because you never get to join giblets with anyone, doesn’t mean no one else can. You’re just jealous,” Sir Cadogan accuses while coming back into view to stand next to the woman.

The woman in the portrait giggles as she pets his armored chest, “I think they’re calling it boinking these days.”

“Really? That’s rather-” Sir Cadogan starts, but I cannot hear the end of his sentence as Professor Snape says something to the woman.

It must have been the password because the portrait swings open, and he pulls me along through it, still laughing at having seen what the portraits get up to in his office.

“Well I’m glad you're amused. At least I didn’t have to see it this time,” he says shaking his head.

I’m stuck standing just inside the room, realizing I’m in what must be his private study. The walls are lined with books. A couch and two chairs sit quaintly around the fireplace. There is a desk off to the right and a door on the left side of the room. I wonder if it leads to his living quarters. _Is this part of them?_

Professor Snape lets go of my hand and walks carefully to where he knows the couch to be. With his hand resting on its back, he says, “Perhaps you could read something.” He waves his hand around, nearly knocking over an old oil lamp on the side table. "I think I'll be content to just sit here."

I glance around the room at the books, but my eyes want to stay on him as he sits on the couch. _Surely he can’t mean to sit there like that for another few hours._ Back straight, knees slightly apart with his palms resting gently on them. I'm unsure how long I stand there staring at him, certain I don't want to know. Unable to help myself, I grab a book at random and move into the circle of seating around the fire. I look from the empty chair to the empty spot on the couch next to him.

“Have you found something to entertain yourself with, Miss Granger?” he asks with searching yet unseeing eyes.

I’m glad he cannot see me blushing as I sit down. He looks quite uncomfortable, his posture even more stiff now, but he doesn’t say anything. I open the book and set it down in my lap. Pretending to read, I watch him curiously. His scent has settled around me, and my mind flashes back to the moment I woke up after being on the astronomy tower with him. I dreamed that I was laying in his arms, and the alluring smell of him was so vivid. My eyes trace over the contours of his face. His cheeks are pale and smooth. His lips are soft, I recall. _Oh what an embarrassing day that was!_

 _What would he do if I kissed him now?_ I shake away the dangerous, tempting thought and turn my attention to the book in my lap. After a few minutes, he finally sits back on the couch, his head barely resting on the back. About an hour later he seems to have dozed off. I cannot help but stare at him while he sits here next to me so unguarded, his features relaxed, his breathing deep and even. The image of me longing to sit and read with Mr. Byron this way assaults my mind, and tears prickle my eyes once again. _It's not something meant for me,_ I remind myself. I don’t know how long I watch him, but when he stirs, I quickly look back down at my book forgetting he can’t see me.

My stomach growls rather loudly, and I try not to feel embarrassed. “What time is it, Miss Granger?” he asks me, his voice groggy. _Ten after four,_ I note as I glance up at the clock on the wall. I take his hand in mine and tap on it four times. “Four?” he asks. I tap again and set my book down on the coffee table. “Dinner’s not for another two hours, but I could eat something as well. Winky?”

The house elf appears standing on the other side of the coffee table. “Yes, Professor Snape?” she asks bowing low, her nose almost touching the ground.

“Would you mind bringing us something to eat? Nothing heavy, and bring tea, please,” he asks her.

“Yes, Sir,” she says bowing again. Within seconds, she reappears in front of us setting down a plate of fruit, cream, cheese and crackers, along with a pot of tea and two cups. “Is Professor Snape needing anything else?” she asks.

“No, Winky,” he tells her. “Thank you.” The elf disappears and I notice he has a thoughtful look on his face. “Miss Granger,” he addresses me while turning his head in my direction. He is so close, closer than he realizes probably. “Would you mind pouring the tea?” he asks, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. 

I give him a cup of tea, and drink with him until he moves to set his cup down. I reach out and guide his hand to the table and push a bowl of fruit in front of him. He seems unsure of what to do with it, so I pick up a berry and put it in his hand to let him know it's a bowl of fruit. 

"Thank you," he says. He eats only a few pieces before I find myself silently giggling watching Professor Snape accidentally stick his fingers in the bowl of whipped cream instead. “Miss Granger,” he frowns, “It seems I require a napkin.” I look around, but there are none. The house elf didn’t bring us any, and I had no way to call the elf back or tell him we don’t have any. “Miss Granger, a napkin. Please,” he persists putting the last berry in his hand in his mouth.

I roll my eyes at his impatience. Without thorough thought, I lean toward him, my knee now touching his. I reach across, grabbing him by the wrist, and take his whipped cream covered middle and forefingers into my mouth. His fingers are resting gently on my tongue, and I realize the awkwardness of what I have done. I glance up at him, and my heart jumps into my throat. His features are frozen, his eyes cast down toward my lap and his lips slightly parted. As I close my lips around his digits, I press my tongue to them and pull them back out while searching his face for a reaction.

 He chews the fruit in his mouth once, twice more before swallowing. I watch as his Adam’s apple move up and then down while his eyelashes flutter briefly. Professor Snape clears his throat before he speaks, “I take it there are none, then.”


	20. A Weasley At Midnight

Professor Snape clears his throat before he speaks, “I take it there are none, then.”

I tap the back of his hand before letting it go and watch as he pulls it down to his lap, his fingers wet with my saliva. He sits quietly, his eyes moving as if trying to see. I contemplate the likeliness that he is thinking about another part of his body being in my mouth. Not something I’ve given much thought to, but now a disturbing ball of curiosity is forming in my gut. _Professor Snape’s penis._ Knowing he cannot see me, I let my eyes wander to the placket of his trousers. The awkward tension in the air prevents either of us from communicating over the next half hour, so I reflect on the last few hours while flipping a page every now and then.

I am mindlessly turning a page that I have not read while thinking about his wandless magic when he says, “Miss Granger, I believe it’s over. My vision has returned.” He still sits motionless not looking in my direction, the tension still apparent.

“Oh!” I exclaim, relieved to have my voice back. “Right. Well, I suppose I’ll be going then.” I stand to leave and try to remember where I had taken this book from. I remain there searching the shelves before me for a few moments looking for the spot it should fit back into. Feeling his presence behind me, I hold my breath. His hand brushes mine as he takes the book from my gasp, and deep down, part of me wants him to touch me more, to brush my hair aside, to kiss the back of my neck.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells me quietly.

“Thank you,” I reply letting out a puff of breath as I turn to look him in the eye. “This has been…interesting.”

He lifts an eyebrow, probably at my audacity to even bring up what we have just suffered through. “Indeed,” is all he says before moving to the coffee table to clean up the snacks the elf brought for us to eat an hour ago.

I take my leave and head to my dorm to relax for a while. The walk is very long but not long enough to help me clear my head. Lying on my bed, I wonder how the next term is going to go. _Will we get alone while I’m his assistant? We certainly got along better today than any other day in my life, and we spent five solid hours together. It was a good start, if nothing else._

At dinner, Headmistress McGonagall announces that a Slytherin/Ravenclaw pair won the scavenger hunt with only fifteen items collected while we wait for the food to be served. I catch Professor Snape stealing a glance at me before she finishes speaking, but he doesn’t look at me again the rest of dinner.

I do not see him again before I leave with Ginny the next day. The train ride is far too long and taxing, knowing I’m not going home to my family. I spend the first several days of break with Harry at Grimmauld Place. He seems even more interested with Professor Snape than I am. _When had I even become interested, anyway?_ Harry is a bit obsessed, though. _Does he look healthier? Has he become more relaxed in class? Does he still take loads of points from Gryffindor? Do you think, if I asked him, he would tell me about my mother?_ It is still better than the barrage of questions about my life. _How is school? How have I been coping? Have I thought about hurting myself?_ I answer all of his questions and assume a cheerful demeanor in the hopes that he will get off my back and leave me in peace.

“Ginny said you tested out of potions,” he remarks over a plate of pancakes.

“Oh. Yes. I did,” I respond.

He frowns down into his plate and asks, “Why only that class if Professor Snape has been better?”

_Crap_. I don’t want to tell him I am going to be working with Snape. “I did it, so I could accept a job assisting at Hogwarts, actually. It’s just part time, but it will help me get on my feet after school ends. That way I won’t have to be in your hair too much.”

He nods. “Well, that makes sense. What will you be assisting with?” he asks.

I finish chewing a bite and answer, “Grading, cleaning up. You know. The usual stuff. Nothing too exciting.” I immediately shove another bite in my mouth hoping the conversation is over.

“Who will you be assisting? Flitwick?” he asks me.

_I should have changed the subject instead of shoving food in my mouth._ I clear my throat. “No. Professor Snape,” I tell him as I get up from the table with my half finished breakfast.

“Oh,” he says. Harry stands up and follows me to the sink. “I thought he was fully recovered. Is he not doing well?” he asks.

Relieved that he’s back on his Snape obsession and not probing me with questions about how we will get alone, I tell him the truth. “I don’t know. He seems fine. Maybe he just wants more free time. We both know he’s earned it.”

Luckily, he accepted my answer and didn’t bring it up again. I go with him later that night to celebrate Christmas Eve at the Burrow. We intend to stay until New Year’s Day. It is a loud, cheerful affair. Fleur just had a baby, and Molly couldn’t be more smitten with her. The baby, Victoire they named her, has strawberry blonde hair and bright, sparkling blue eyes.

New Year’s Eve comes quickly, and I have several drinks before midnight. Ron is out with a “friend” who I assume to be Lavender Brown, but it doesn’t bother me. I haven’t been able to get Professor Snape out of my mind the entire time I’ve been away from the Hogwarts. I wonder what he is doing tonight and who he is spending his evening with. The thought of him out on the town with some witch makes my stomach turn, and I don’t want to think about what it implies.

Charlie, of all people, kisses me at the strike of twelve, but I don’t pull away like I would have only weeks ago. It’s been so long that I haven’t felt uncomfortable being touched, that I want to keep kissing him. The fact that Professor Snape is still on my mind is something I try to overlook while my lips move against his. We break apart, and I suddenly wish I weren’t missing so much in my life. Missing the excitement of a new crush. Missing my parents and the security they provided me with. Missing Mr. Byron and his companionship even if it was complicated. I have been missing out on a lot that life has to offer lately, and I almost want to pity myself for it.

Charlie and I are the last to remain in the living room finishing our drinks, as everyone else has gone to bed. He stands and asks, “What do you say we bring in the New Year properly?” He gives me a sly smile and takes my empty glass. Feeling the need to do something new, anything to escape the emptiness I am feeling, I take Charlie’s hand and let him lead me to his old room.

I half expect him to kick me out when I tell him I’m a virgin, but he seems to be rather please with that information. I climb up on the bed and feel myself sway from the alcohol I’ve had. He climbs in after me and before I know it, he has me naked, his hands touching me in places no one ever has. Closing my eyes, I try to enjoy the feeling of his hands on me, in me. His hands are rough, his fingers thick. They are the opposite of Professor Snape’s, but I try not to focus on that. Charlie wraps my hand around his penis, and it is much like I imagine it would be, if not a little longer.

He goes slowly, and it doesn’t hurt so much as it feels uncomfortable at first. Almost as soon as I relax and start to enjoy the feeling, Snape returns to my mind. I can’t shake the image of him sitting next to me with his fingers in my mouth, and everything feels wrong. My mind is on my professor, but every awkward movement of Charlie’s distorts the image I have of Snape, who always moves with purpose and finesse. Charlie is too muscular, too ginger, too much the opposite of Professor Snape. I wonder if it is normal to be thinking of someone else while being intimate. It shouldn’t be. Afterwards, I sneak into the bathroom for a shower with a silencing charm on the door. I feel dirty, and I just want to go to sleep.

Two days later, I receive a letter from Professor Snape, and I wish it were from Mr. Byron, as moronic as that makes me. I have no doubt it is in regards to the assistant position he has begrudgingly agreed to give me. The letter reads:

_Miss Granger,_

_After reviewing my schedule, I have determined the following work schedule is necessary to fulfill the minimum ten hours per week without having to include weekends. I have office hours in the afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. I have rounds on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings and designated detention slots held open for Thursdays. Therefore, I propose the following schedule:_

_Monday 8pm-10pm_

_Tuesdays and Wednesdays 4pm-6pm_

_Thursdays and Fridays 8pm-10pm_

_Please inform me as soon as possible if any of those times do not work for you, as I will need time to make accommodations. Otherwise, come to my office at 8pm on Monday, and we will further discuss what is expected of you._

_Professor Severus Snape_

_P.S. I sent this nearly a week ago to the address we have on file for you, but it was returned. Please see that you update your information in the records office._


	21. Runaway Train

I stop by Gringotts on my way to the platform to get my account information hoping my pay can be deposited without having to leave Hogwarts to go to the bank. I’m nervous to return to school, to see Professor Snape again. During the train ride to Hogwarts, I try to envision what it is going to be like working with him. With my head resting back against the seat, and my eyes closed, Ginny thinks I’ve fallen asleep. It's exactly what I want, to be left alone with my thoughts. 

I am plagued by my insecurities. I am sure I am going to fail. My potion making skills are sub-par compared to his, my grading too relaxed, my cleaning not thorough enough. I will never be good enough for him, and I contemplate quitting before I have even started. What would he think of me then? No. That’s not an option. I’ve already tested out of his class. I’ll never sit in the lab and follow him with my eyes as he paces the room lecturing. The thought has me panicking suddenly. Another reliable part of my life is over. It didn’t just slip through my fingers either; I threw it out the window without giving it any thought. What had I been thinking?

With my heart pounding and my stomach churning, I fake waking and tell Ginny I’m going for a walk. I pass by several compartments. Some are quite, but most are full of rowdy students. As I near the back, I realize there is nowhere to go. I’m trapped on the speeding bullet that is to lead to the end of my Hogwarts life, and I can hardly breathe. The floor beneath my feet is rumbling with the vibrations of the train, and I sneak into the last compartment, the compartment no one ever sits in because it is so loud.

I stumble to the window between the seats and look out at the rapidly passing landscape. My stomach cannot take anymore, so I fall back into the seat and bring my knees up to my chest. wrapping my arms around them tightly, I rest my head against my knees and wish I could stop time. At some point, I started crying, and when I draw the neck of my shirt up to wipe my eyes, I realize I had left my uniform in my bags, which all went in the baggage compartment because I hadn't wanted to deal with them. After convincing myself that I didn’t give a shit if I showed up in cargo pants and a white tank top, I realized my jumper, which I removed once on the humid train, remained in the compartment with Ginny. 

Somehow, the mind jarring, rattling vibrations of the train lessened to bearable, and the noise quieted to a reasonable hum. I’ve grown numb to it, apparently. My eyes become heavier and heavier as I contemplate the idea of slowly becoming numb to everything. What is left of a person once that happens? Are you even still a person anymore at that point? 

Blue eyes are staring down at me, and I gasp as his cold body lies down on top of mine. Everything is all wrong. I close my eyes and shake my head. I feel his lips upon my brow, and his body grows warmer. When I open my eyes again, the face that pulls back is not the same. His blue eyes have been replaced with shining ebony ones. His hair, sleek and long, hangs down tickling my cheek. ‘Run away with me’, the eyes above me say. 

I don’t respond right away, and I’ve lost the moment. The eyes now follow me through the crowd; I can feel them on me, caressing my skin, making it crawl. Making my way through the smiling, laughing couples who are dancing, I glance back to see he’s still watching me, still hunting me. After another look over my shoulder, I run into a body. Rough hands grab me by my uppers arms, and I look up into his silver face. Swirls are etched into it, making an intricate design. His face is a mask. A Death Eater’s mask. A loud cry escapes me, and I struggle out of his grasp, turn around, and see the couples dancing. The men, whose faces swim and flash by me casually, are all covered with the same elegant pattern. 

The exit is on the other side of the room. I’ll never make it out of here alive. Weaving through the bodies, I get within twenty feet of freedom, but I’m stopped. A hand has grasps mine, and I spin back around to face my assailant when I cannot shake free. His eyes, black as the moonless night sky, are reaching into my soul. ‘Run away with me’, they say. I can’t, though. I have to get out of here. Doesn’t he understand? I look back behind me to the door I so desperately want to go through, but it has disappeared along with my hope of finding safety. I whimper as I turn back around to face him again. Our eyes meet, but his are now looking at me from behind his mask. The mask that I fear so much.

“Miss Granger,” he says bringing me back to my senses with a hand on my shoulder.

I shriek as I see his face hovering over me. My body flails about until it is flat on the floor of the compartment I am occupying. “Christ! You scared me,” I snap at Professor Snape. Forgoing admonishing me for my language, he looks down at me with a frown, his displeasure evident. Still lying on the floor, I ask, “What are you doing here, Sir?” I had no idea he was on the train. 

Professor Snape gives me a look full of suspicion before he relaxes and holds up a scroll that unrolls, proving to be quite long. It appears to be a list with everything on it crossed out. “I am one Granger short of being able to eat my dinner,” he says with a stern look on his face. “You have arrived at school, Miss Granger, and all of your peers are making their way into the Great Hall as we speak.”

I exhale loudly and lay my head back on the carpeted floor.

He reaches a hand down to me. “I suggest we leave before the train runs away with us.”

My eyes snap up to his in alarm, and he sighs. “Did something happen on the way here?” he asks me with a straight face. I look away from him remembering the dream I had. “Don’t tell me, then. We are getting off this train, though,” he tells me as he bends over, grabs both of my hands, and pulls me to my feet. I stand there, swaying as lightheartedness hits me. “Where are your things, Miss Granger?” he asks. 

This seems to snap me out of my own private world, and I look up at him nervously. “Um. I was in a compartment with Ginny Weasley a few cars ahead, Sir.” 

“Then what were you doing back here?” he asks.

What can I tell him? My mind draws a blank, and I spit out the first thing that come to mind. “Same reason as you, I suppose,” I answer with a shrug.

His eyebrows stain upward before he shakes his head and says, "You were back here looking for yourself?" 

I frown at the ground in response to his question and say to him honestly, in spite of myself. "More like running away from." 

“Okay,” he says slowly shaking his head again. “Let’s just go get your things, so we can get to dinner.”

I nod and follow him through several cars. “I don’t see my jumper, Sir. Ginny must have taken it, and my bags were all in the baggage compartment.” 

"Fine," he responds and ushers me to the nearest door to get off the train. He descends first and holds a hand up to help me down the steps of the train, but I stand shivering in the doorway, looking out at the snowy ground. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he says under his breath, as he takes his cloak off and hands it to me in a wad, as if intentionally trying not to be too gentlemanly about it. I thank him and wrap it around my shoulders. 

I gather handfuls of it at my sides, careful not to step on it. We walk together in silence up to the school. Once inside, I hand him back his robe, but he looks down at me and glowers. “You cannot attend dinner in that whilst everyone else is in uniform. Here,” he holds his robe up, waves his wand over it, and transfigures it to a smaller size. “Just bring it back to me tomorrow,” he grumbles.

“Thank you, Sir,” I say before he heads around to the side entrance of the Great Hall. 

I sit down next to Ginny and try not to draw attention to myself. Ginny turns to me to say something but then looks at me in surprise. "You smell like a guy, Hermione. Is that where you’ve been?" she asks with a smug smile.


	22. Definitely Not Normal

I sit down next to Ginny and try not to draw attention to myself. Ginny turns to me to say something but then looks at me in surprise. "You smell like a guy, Hermione. Is that where you’ve been?" she asks with a smug smile.

“What?” I look at her confused. “Oh. No. I got a hug from Hagrid. He’s wearing too much cologne.”

“Ah,” Ginny says. “At least it smells good.”

Yes. Yes it does. Professor Snape smells good, and I wish he didn’t. I glance up at him, and he is talking with Professor Sprout. When he looks in my direction, I quickly avert my eyes. I avoid looking anywhere but my food the rest of the meal. I’m going to be working with him starting tomorrow, and I don’t want to make things any more uncomfortable than I already have. 

Monday’s classes are incredibly boring as the teachers always feel the need for a review after winter break. Do they really think we’ve forgotten everything in the last few weeks? I don’t know about the other students, but I find it particularly insulting. After classes, I go to the library to study, hoping to take my mind off of Professor Snape, who I’m meeting in just a few short hours. My attempt is quite unsuccessful, and I abandon it only an hour later.

Giving up, I go up to my room and throw myself face down on my bed. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to wear. Does he expect me to wear my uniform? He couldn’t possibly. That would just be odd. I don’t know why I’m so worried about it. He’ll surely tell me if he cares enough about it. I decide to wear jeans, an old shirt, and a sweater. Yes. That would be normal attire. So after nearly thirty minutes thinking about it, I have come to the conclusions that I would like to appear normal. Brilliant. It sounds so easy, but I feel like anything but that at the moment. 

I head down to dinner late, so I can go straight to Professor Snape’s office afterwards. My stomach feels like it’s fighting every bite. It’s screaming at me, and if I don’t stop trying to force it, it will end up saying ‘I told you so’ after I get sick all over his desk. My palms are sweaty, and I suddenly have the stupid fear that I’m not going to be able to hold on to a bloody test tube. 

I knock on his door at 7:59pm and wait, hoping the feeling returns to my feet. The door opens. I expect to see him standing there, but he is seated at his desk with a quill in his hand. 

“Come in. Have a seat,” he tells me without looking up at me once. He continues writing.

As soon as I’m through the door, he waves a finger in my directions, and I jump slightly at the sound of the door shutting behind me. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. I sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk and wait for him to finish whatever he is doing. 

He sets his quill down on the desk and looks up at me. Folding his hands together on top of the desk, he says, “You are going to be responsible for cleaning up the potions classroom on a daily basis. You will mark any essays I leave for you with corrections only. I’ll do the grading myself. I will require you to brew for the infirmary regularly, and I may have you assist with a potion on occasion. On Tuesday and Wednesdays I may have you tutor a select student here and there.” He picks up the parchment he had been writing on and holds it out to me. “I’d like you to familiarize yourself with these, as they are the potions which regularly need to be restocked in the hospital wing. I expect you to be on time, and I will not have my assistant breaking school rules, is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” I answer him. 

“You will have unlimited access to the restricted section of the library, but you will not be allowed to grant permission for any other students. You will also have access to the staff room if you wish to use it. I will pay you on Fridays,” he says.

“Oh. I stopped by the bank,” I say taking out the slip. “I was hoping it could be deposited directly into my account.”

He nodded taking the paper. “That will make it even easier. You can go ahead and clean up the classroom. I’ve left some work for you to correct on my desk.”

A little over an hour later, I am scrubbing one of the pewter cauldrons when I hear a snort at the door. I turn around to see Professor Snape leaning against the frame with a hand covering his mouth. He is obviously trying not to laugh, which is unsettling enough on its own, but it is apparently at something I am doing. I have already managed to fuck something up, but I have no idea what it is.

Straightening out his features, he moves into the room and says, “Miss Granger, this is not detention. I expect you to use magic. I would prefer you be more efficient with your time.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, don’t I feel foolish?” You are a complete idiot, Hermione!

He smirks at me indicating that I should, in fact, feel like an idiot. “Just finish up what you can in the next forty-five minutes and call it at night.” 

“Yes, Sir,” I tell him and watch him leave me to finish cleaning the room. 

I only make it half way through the stack of papers he left for me to mark, and I feel disappointed with myself for not finishing the work he has given me on my very first day. Once inside Gryffindor common room, Ginny asks me how my night went. Harry told her about my assistant job with Professor Snape. She was initially frustrated with me for not mentioning it to her, but she got over it quickly enough.

“It was fine, Gin. I just cleaned and marked essays,” I tell her with a shrug. I would prefer she not ask questions. For some reason I feel the need to lie to her, as if there is something to hide. There isn’t, of course, but her inquiry feels like it’s too personal of a question. 

I lay awake in bed for almost two hours unable to relax. The other girls are all asleep, so I risk rummaging through my underwear draw for the little toy I have stashed in there. Unable to find it, I open the next drawer and see Professor Snape’s cloak folded neatly on top of my clothes. I forgot to give it back to him. I pull the fabric out and draw it up to my nose. It still smells like him somehow. I hadn’t put it in the laundry for fear of losing it. Abandoning my search for my toy, I get back in bed with the cloak. 

I am on the top of the ladder trying to put away the moonseed, but I cannot reach far enough. Giving up, I come down the ladder and feel a body behind me as soon as my feet touch the ground. It’s large and warm, and its arms come around me, grabbing the ladder on either side of me. I turn to face the person who is invading my space, and I slump back against the wooden stairs as I see Professor Snape looking down at me intently.

My heart beat echoes in the small storage room as one of his hands comes to the top button on my school uniform. He told me I had to wear it for him, said he liked seeing me in it. He is unbuttoning my shirt, and all I can do is stare at him. My tongue comes out to wet my lips as he releases the last button and pushes the shirt off to the side, exposing my lacy bra. I wore it for him, just like he asked me to. My thighs tremble as his hand smooths up the side of my rib cage and rests over my left breast. 

He leans in and kisses me, tangling his other hand in my hair. His lips are so soft, and I cannot wait to feel them elsewhere. He smells incredible, and I gasp as he squeezes my breast. Hard and harder until it is a sharp pain. 

I sir awake and looked wide-eyed at the cat, whose decided to dig his claws into my chest, kneading, and purring loudly. I drop my head back down upon my pillow as I brush the cat off of me. It’s nearly six in the morning. I don’t want to get up yet, so I roll over onto my side and realize I have Professor Snape’s cloak stretched out next to me with part of it under me. Oh my God! I remember the dream I was having and suddenly the aching between my legs makes sense. “Shit,” I mutter to myself. It won’t do to go having dream like that. Nothing good will come of it. 

I bring Professor Snape’s cloak with me that afternoon. I am able to clean the classroom, finish marking the papers from both days, and I still have a little time until six. I hadn’t even seen Professor Snape this afternoon, as I already knew what was expected of me. Walking to his office with the stack of corrected essays and his borrowed cloak, I am surprised to hear him in the hallway around the corner. He is talking with a student. They seem to be talking about an assignment. I round the corner once I think they are finished talking and catch Professor Snape before he disappears into his office. Thinking I am going to hand him the papers and his clothing and leave, I’m surprised he holds the door open for me. I walk into his office and sit. Sitting here now, I feel nervous and the dream pops back up in my mind.

“Just put those on my desk,” he says quietly while he shuffles something around behind me. I cannot see what he is doing, and I feel uncomfortable just sitting here. “Here,” he says handing me a copy of an old book entitled, 100 Most Commonly Used Potions. “Just hang on to that for now. There are alterations to many of the potions I brew for Poppy in there. I expect you to use them. Some are for effectiveness, while others are simply to reduce the cost.” 

“Thank you,” I tell him looking down at the old book. Trying to distract myself from my wicked thoughts, I ask, “Sir, may I ask why you wanted an assistant?”

He looks at me in surprise. I’m not sure if it should be obvious to me or if he is surprise that I felt compelled to ask. “With what you will be doing for me, I’ll have my weekends free for the first time in almost two decades,” he admits. 

Wow. I had no idea he worked so many hours. “Have you ever thought about not assigning so much homework?” The question is out of my mouth before I realize how sarcastic it sounds.

“Don’t be cheeky,” he says frowning at me. “Less homework means more accidents in my lab.” I nod in understanding and watch him pull a piece of parchment out. “I’m going to need you to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow and pick up an order from the apothecary.” He scribbles several things down on the paper. “Here is a list of the items that should be in the order. Double check it to make sure everything is there before you sign for it. Once you return, see Madam Pomfrey, and ask her for the list of potions that need restocking. You can get started on that afterwards.”

“Yes, Sir,” I respond. “Will that be all for the night?” I ask.

“Yes. Go on,” he nods to the door before pulling open one of his desk drawers. 

As I walk back to Gryffindor tower, I think about what he might do with his weekends now that he will have them free. Will he travel? Will he make new friends? Will he meet someone? Will he take her to dinner, discuss his interests with her? Will he touch her the way he touched me in my dream? I feel nauseated by the thought. Still not feeling well, I don’t make it to dinner. It is painfully obvious that the illness I've come down with is jealousy, but it is also madness. It is official, I'm afraid. I am clinically insane. I'm having a disgusting fit of insecurity over someone else's imagined potential future relationship. Fuck. 


	23. A Friendly Side Of Snape?

It is the first Wednesday of term, and I am sitting on my bed wishing I was in potions class with Ginny. I am missing Professor Snape sweep by my workstation to scowl into my cauldron, and the feeling is oddly similar to that of an ulcer. Trying to distract myself, I work on translating next week’s runes assignment. Losing track of time, I realize I don’t have enough time to change out of my school uniform before heading down to the dungeons. I’ll be lucky to be on time as it is. I hastily make my way down the stairs, and I am not expecting to see Professor Snape coming up the stairs to the second floor toward me. 

Stopping in front of me, he says, “I forgot to inform you that you will be required to attend staff meetings, Miss Granger. They are held in the staff room on the west wing of the third floor.”

“Oh!” I say surprised. “Is there are schedule for them somewhere?” I ask him.

He moves to step around me and says, “I’ll make you a copy. The first one of this term is in five minutes, so I suggest you follow me.”

I turn and head back up the stairs behind him wondering why I would be required to attend. I’m technically staff, but it’s not like anyone really thinks of me that way. Does he think of me that way? Does he think of me as an adult? I follow closely behind him as he walks through the door and heads toward the back of the room. I had caught a peek into this room once during my third year, so I know the chairs have been arranged for the meeting. Four rows of folding chairs, ten across, are set out facing a small podium on the side of the room. McGonagall is leaning against it talking quietly with Professor Sprout. Professor Snape takes the last seat in the back row, and I go to sit in the third to last leaving a seat in between us.

“No,” Professor Snape practically whines at me in a hushed voice. It is odd, coming from him, and I wonder why he waves me closer to sit next to him. I watch the door carefully as the last few staff trickle in trying to avoid looking at the man sitting beside me. Madam Pince enters just in front of Hagrid and stops abruptly upon seeing me. Hagrid nearly clobbers her as he had clearly expected her to keep moving. A few grumbled apologies later, Pince comes and sits in the seat in front of me. I glance over to Professor Snape just in time to see his eyes roll at the stuffy librarian. 

McGonagall starts talking, but I’m not paying attention to her at all. Professor Snape crosses his legs towards me, his pant leg touching my bare skin. Embarrassingly, I am sitting in the staff meeting in my uniform, and he seems completely unaware his clothes are toughing me. Fifteen minutes into the meeting, Professor Snape leans over putting his arm on the back of my chair and whispers in my ear, “Do not raise your hand.” His breath is warm blowing across my ear, and I try to pretend it doesn’t unsettle me. I don’t even wonder what he is talking about because his arm remains on the back of my chair so casually. 

What is he doing? Why hasn’t he moved his arm away from me? Has anyone else noticed? What will they think? Nothing! They would think nothing of it. It’s me who is crazy, I remind myself. 

“Pomona. Thank you. We need one more. Oh, yes. Thank you, Hagrid. Now that we have the chaperones for Hogsmeade, I’ll need everyone to sign up for duties regarding the Valentine’s dance,” McGonagall said.

Huh? Since when did we have dances? The Yule ball was different. We had been hosting two other schools and the Triwizard Tournament. I don’t want to go to any dance. Who would I even ask? I glance over at Professor Snape, and he seems equally thrilled about this event. 

“We’ll need someone to do the lighting, someone to choose a theme… music selection…” she goes on. McGonagall hands Flitwick a sheet of paper and says, “Just write your name in one of the blanks that needs to be filled under each duty. 

By the time we finally get the signup sheet, we have no choice but to write our names down under lighting. At least I won’t have to attend the dance alone or pretend to be sick. A short while later, the meeting comes to an end, and Professor Snape tells me to go on back to the classroom and that he had something to discuss with McGonagall. I notice Madam Pince looking at me strangely as I make my way out of the row of seats. I don’t know what to make of it and wonder if Professor Snape hasn’t returned his library books in a timely manner. 

I sit down with Ginny in the Great Hall for dinner, and Headmistress McGonagall announces we will be having a Valentine’s Day Ball. The noise level in the room nearly doubles, but I’m focused on Professor Snape. He is sitting quietly staring at the goblet his hand rests on. As he raises his gaze, I quickly look away. I am pretty sure I’m blushing as I was just thinking about the staff meeting and how friendly he had been with me. It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself.

“Whoever it is, you had better ask him soon,” Ginny whispers to me.

“What?” I ask her not having a clue what she’s talking about.

She sighs and answers, “Whoever it is you are crushing on, Hermione. Oh, come on. You’ve had your head in the cloud for weeks, and one mention of a dance has you bright red.” She laughs, “Did you really expect that I wouldn’t ever figure it out? If you think I actually bought that whole, Hagrid gave me a hug business, you don’t give me enough credit.”

Unsure what to say to that, I tell her, “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be working with the staff that night. McGonagall gave us all jobs to do.”

“Well, that stinks. Do you at least get put up the decorations?” Ginny asks me.

I shake my head. “Lights. I’ll be busy the whole night.” 

Later that night I sit with Luna and Ginny in the head girl’s bedroom. The two of them are discussing their boyfriends and how they would like to spend Valentine’s Day. “It’s over a month away,” I remind them. 

“Yeah, but I thought I wasn’t going to get to see Harry. I’m excited. You would be too if you were me,” Ginny says. “Maybe we’ll be able to sneak off for a bit. Hey, do you remember how many points Hufflepuff lost during the Yule Ball? I think it was like a hundred. I heard most of them were caught by Snape,” she laughed. 

I’m suddenly curious what it would be like to be caught with a boy by him. What would he say? What of the look on his face? Damn Ginny for making me think of such a thing. “Well, you won’t have to worry about him this time. He’ll being doing the lights with me,” I inform her. 

Ginny looks at me with a mortified expression on her face and says, “You have to spend Valentine’s Day with Snape? I’m so sorry.”

Luna chimes in, “I don’t think it would be that bad. He’s obviously got a touch of a romantic side to him, given what we know about him now.”

Ginny and I both look at her blankly. “Do you…do you think he’s still in love with her?” I ask them.  
“Probably,” Luna shrugs. 

“Personally, I don’t care to know. I’d rather not think about it because…what if he’d been Harry’s dad?” Ginny cringes as she says it.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Having been left to my own devises the last three days, I’m surprised to see Professor Snape in the classroom when I get there just before eight. The classroom already appears to be clean, and Professor Snape is marking papers at his desk. 

He looks up at me and says, “I’ll need you to do inventory in the storage room today. It will likely take the next two hours, so that’s all I’ll have you do.” He stands up from his chair and grabs a sheet of parchment off of his desk. “Come,” he says as he walks to the storage area. Standing outside the ‘L’ shaped room, he explains as he holds the paper up, “The quantities go in this column, the expiration dates in the next. That first column is how many we need to have, so the fourth column is how many we will need to replace.”

Standing next to him, I look down to see what he is talking about. It’s fairly simple, and I have no doubt I will be able to do it without any problems. 

“The ladder is just around the corner there. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be grading for a while,” he tells me. I nod in understanding, and he leaves me to it.

I’m nearly three quarters of the way done, when I turn around to put the jar of gillyweed back on the shelf. Startled to see Professor Snape standing behind me, I almost drop the jar. Without saying a word, he puts his hand on my elbow as he squeezes past me, brushing against me to get to a shelf in the back. 

“Have you already done these back here?” he asks from around the corner. I follow after him, and tell him that I have already done that section. “Add another jar of horned toad,” he says. 

I set the sheet on a shelf in front of me to write down the extra jar, and I feel him squeeze by me again, but I’m bent over, and there’s a great deal more contact. I imagine my ass is in his lap pretty much, and I stand up straight immediately. Instead of continuing to move past me, he leans over my shoulder, his body still touching mine, and points to something on the sheet.

“This can’t be right,” he says pointing at the asphodel. “I just got more in before winter break.”

I’m not capable of following him, as my mind is whirling and a blush is fighting its way to the surface. He backs away before anything embarrassing happens and climbs the ladder to search the top shelf to see if I made a mistake in counting to one.

“Ah. It got pushed back, it seems. Suppose you’re a bit short to see the top shelf,” he teases me. I frown at him, but he ignores it and tells me to add another three bottles to the inventory.


	24. Between The Lines

Friday, I see no sign of Professor Snape, so I clean up the classroom and mark the essays on his desk. When I’m done, I don’t get up to leave but sit back down slowly as I look out over the classroom. I sit at Professor Snape’s desk, where I’ve watched him sit for years occasionally glancing up to make sure we were all on task. As I trace the grain in the dark wood, I wonder what it would have been like had he been a more relaxed teacher. Had he been friendly, would I have found myself in this state of being fascinated by him much sooner? I don’t realize how long I sit here thinking about him, and I am startled by his voice at the front of the room.

“I’m surprised you’re still here. Did you have trouble with something?” he asks stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.

“No. No, Sir. I was just about to get going, actually,” I say hoping he believes me. I’m sure I’m carnation pink at the moment. Not a flattering color on me. 

“Miss Granger, I’ve known you long enough to know when you look guilty. What did you do?” he asks approaching me as I stand up. He doesn’t look angry: he looks humored. 

“N-nothing,” I say as I sit back down when he gets too close to me. “I was just thinking about how I’m…I’m never going to be a student in this room again.” Uh, I wish I hadn’t admitted that. How silly he must think I am.

Professor Snape sits on the corner of his desk, one long leg still flat on the ground, the other at an angle toward me with his foot dangling dangerously close to my leg. “Does that bother you?” he asks me.

“NO. Well, maybe a little,” I admit. I can’t stop watching his foot. If it touches me, I’m likely to run out of here in an embarrassing fit of nervousness. 

He asks me, “Do you feel unprepared to move on with your life?”

I don’t like this conversation one bit. I want a way out that doesn’t leave me looking like some loon who has just remembered she has to go chart her cycle. Desperate to change the subject, I ask him the first thing that comes to mind. “What was with Madman Pince at the meeting? She looked put out by seeing me there. I’ve never given her any problems, so I’m not sure what to think of it.”

“Oh. Erm, that wasn’t your fault. I think Minerva must have let it slip that I have a rather rare collection of books over the summer. Since I returned just before the school year started she’s been badgering me to show them to her.” 

“Your book,” I repeat. “Pince is after your… books?” 

He scratches his head. “I can’t seem to get away from her. Every chance she gets, she ask me to show them to her. She’s even gone so far as to try to flirt her way into my room to get her greedy hands on them! Her obsession has gotten out of hand, if you ask me.” He looks quit perturbed, and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I cannot help it. I laugh at him. I laugh at the fact that he is so oblivious, when I know him to be one of, if not the smartest person I know. 

“What is so funny?” he demands making a face that would have frightened me as a first year. And second, and third, and all the way through the last year if I were honest. 

I take pity on him, which I know he hates, but wouldn’t he hate it more not knowing what was happening? “She’s not trying to get her hands on you books, sir.” I laugh some more. “She’s trying to get them on your bits.” 

He looks at me seriously, pinching his brows together in contemplation of the light I’ve just shed on his situation. “No,” he shakes his head. “That’s not possible. We’ve worked together for over ten years.” Professor Snape makes a sour face and comments, “She looks just like my mother.” I can’t help but continue laughing at him, sitting in his chair while he sits on his desk towering over me. “Stop that. Stop laughing,” he warns me darkly, as if I’m unaware of who he really is under his intimidating exterior. 

“I can’t help it, Sir,” I say trying to stop my hysterical fit. “She does look like your mother. Doesn’t she?”

“When did you meet my mother?” he asks suspiciously. 

Shit. “Oh! Um, I saw a photograph of her once while I was in the records section of the library. I was researching the half blood prince,” I tell him still trying to control myself. “You were smarted than me, and I thought I was going to have to kill Harry for cheating. I suppose I wasn’t as upset when I found out it was your book, though.”

“Am,” he corrects me. “I still am smarter than you,” he corks an eyebrow at me, and I can’t deny how sexy it is. 

“Except when it comes to women wanting to see your books,” I retort making a show of looking at his crotch. 

“I think that’s enough out of you for one night,” he declares standing up. Professor Snape walks over to the shelf in the corner of the room to grab a stack of quizzes. “Enjoy your weekend, Miss Granger,” he says to me.

I make my way to the door ready to escape before this gets any more awkward and tell him, “You too, Sir.” 

~~~~ 

I spend almost my entire weekend wondering what Professor Snape is doing. He shows up for mealtimes with the exception of Sunday night. I wonder where he is and who he’s with. Sunday evening would be a strange time for an outing. Wouldn’t it? After dinner, I hide in my bed with my curtains drawn around me, so I can cry in privacy. I’m not sure what is wrong, but it makes me restless all night long. I’m exhausted during classes on Monday, and I take a nap before dinner. 

“Hermione,” Ginny calls me. “Hermione, are you feeling alright?”

I grumble as I sit up and rub my eyes. “Yeah. I was just tired. What time is it?” I ask her.

“It’s a quarter to eight,” she answers.

“Shit,” I say jumping out of bed. “Sorry, Gin. I have to go, or Professor Snape will be furious.” I find myself once again walking down the stairs in a hurry and in my damn uniform. I make it to the classroom just in time, and Professor Snape is sitting at his desk with a stack of papers.

He looks up at me and frowns, most likely at my attire, but he doesn’t comment on that. “You weren’t at dinner. Why?” he asks me before I even have a chance to start cleaning up.

“Oh. I was asleep,” I tell him. 

“Go to the kitchens and get something to eat. Don’t come back until you’re done,” he says while taking another paper and placing it in front of him.

“Really, Sir. I’m not hungry. If I could just get started-” He looks at me in annoyance. “Okay,” I give in. Leaving while he is sitting there grading makes me feel horrible. 

The walk to the kitchens is long, and I pass a group of Slytherin students who seem to be absorbed in a conversation about the newest broom. Once in the kitchen I take a turkey sandwich not wanting the elves to go to much trouble for me. I eat in a hurry and feel uncomfortably full afterwards. 

Finally making it back to the classroom, I’m disappointed to see that Professor Snape is putting away his things. I wasted a half an hour in the kitchens when I could have been here with him. That’s not something I should be thinking, I realize. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. He doesn’t matter. But he does, and tears prickle at my eyes. 

“Mr. Bowman, a third year Hufflepuff, will be waiting for you in the classroom tomorrow afternoon. Teach him the proper way to slice roots, and don’t let him go until he’s done an entire jar full properly. I had better hear about it if he is late or gives you any trouble,” he says while he puts the stack of parchments away in a cabinet behind his desk. 

“Yes, Sir,” I tell him trying not to sniffle. 

“Are you alright, Miss Granger?” he asks me.

Crap! “Yes, Sir. Just allergies,” I lie. I find it almost funny that I now wish he would leave. 

“Well, when you finish cleaning, you may go. Stop by the infirmary for a decongestant,” he instructs. 

Once again I’m going to have to go to Madam Pomfrey asking for something I don’t need because I’m an emotional wreck, and I can’t admit it. It’s getting old. Very, very old. “Yes, Sir,” I tell him, and breathe a sigh of relief as soon as he leaves me alone in the classroom. 

~~~~~~~~

I don’t see Professor Snape on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, and I start to worry that he is avoiding me. That would be unlikely, I know, but the thought keeps pestering me. Friday before dinner, I spend time with Luna and Ginny in Ginny’s room. At least I’ve gotten Ginny and McGonagall off my back. I'm grateful for that.

When I arrive in the classroom, Professor Snape is waiting for me. “I’m going to have you assist me with a potion I’m brewing, so I’ve already cleaned up in here,”

Good. He’s not avoiding me. “Okay. Sure,” I say.

“Come,” he says sweeping past me and out though the door. 

I follow him the short way to his office, and we go through a door that I had originally assumed led to his living quarters. I stand next to him in a large storage area. It’s the size of a regular room, actually. Several shelves make up aisles throughout the space. I follow behind him through the maze until we get to another door. 

“This was the closet for this room, but I needed the room for the supplies. I have a few extension charms on it though, and it’s proved to be an adequate space to brew,” he explained. 

Yes. That is odd, I think. Using the entire room for storage and the closet as a work space, but what else would he do to make the room functional? I follow him into the closet and am relieved to see there is enough room not to feel claustrophobic when the door is open. A tall table sits along the left wall, and a sink and additional counter space are on the right side. I look over at the cauldron simmering on the counter and ask, “What shall I help you with?” 

“Here,” he says grabbing a textbook off of the opposite counter, “are the ingredients and the instructions, which I’ve changed somewhat. “If you could get the ingredients needed from step nine onward. Just put them on over there,” he says pointing to the counter he just picked the book up from. “Oh, the shelves are arranged in alphabetical order in groups of like ingredients, with the exception of the shelf nearest the door. That has…well, everything I’ve used recently that I haven’t put away, so if you can’t find something it’s probably on that shelf. 

I nod and go back into the storage room feeling overwhelmed. He made it sound simple, but each rack is put in alphabetical order, not the entire room from one side to the next. I look down at the list, and the first thing is dragon blood. I locate the section that appears to be animal parts, but it isn’t there. I check the rack by the door, and it’s not there either. I walk the room looking for another place it might be. It isn’t until I pass it twice that I realize it is on the rack with liquids. Out of the ten ingredients, there are only two that I find right away. It would have taken him two minutes to do this himself. 

Finally finished collecting the ingredients, I return to the room where he is chopping knotgrass. “Can I do that for you, Sir?” I ask him.

“I’m almost finished,” he tells me as he continues chopping. 

I take a seat and watch him finish with the knotgrass. He moves on to preparing the next ingredient without saying anything. “Sir, what can I help you with?” I ask.

“Huh? Oh. Soak the pungous onion in a vat of oil,” he says.

“Okay,” I reply having no idea where to find the oil. I head back into the storage room and go to the shelf of liquids. Nope. Not there. I walk the room several times and cannot find the damn oil. As I’m making my way back to the room to tell him I cannot find it, I see it sitting on the damn shelf of ‘I’m too busy to put shit away’. I grab a jar off the wall outside of the brewing room and take a seat next to him with the onion and the oil. I pour the oil in the jar and drop one of the onions in.

Professor Snape makes a hissing noise as he reaches in and takes the onion out of the oil. “Sorry. I forgot to mention they have to be peeled,” he says as he rips away at the first layer of the onion. “Here,” he says handing it back to me while reaching for the other onion. I sit and watch as he peels the second onion. Once both of the onions are in the vat of oil, I ask him what else I can do. I’m just staring at an onion, after all. 

“Nothing at the moment,” he answers as he takes three rat tails and begins dicing them. Half way through the second one, he sets the blade down to stir the potion for nearly five minutes. 

At this point I’m starting to think that this is just a waste of time. “Sir, would you like me to finish dicing those?” 

“Um, no,” he says as he sets the stirring rod down and picks the blade back up. 

I am getting angry. He apparently thinks I’m incompetent. Does he really think I cannot even dice rat tails? Is watching onions soak all I’m good for now? The little ball of anger inside me grows until it forces me to stand up. “Sir, if you didn’t need my help, why did you have me come with you?” There’s an awkward silence as he looks at me with his lips slightly parted and his brows pinched together. Apparently, he has no idea either. Did he intend for me to just sit here and watch him for the next two hours? “Shall I just go?” I ask him seriously.

He clears his throat and sets the blade down on the counter. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t need help brewing. Frankly, I’m just not used to having help,” he admits. “I have nothing else for you to do this evening, so you can go if you’d like.”

I don’t want to leave, but what choice do I have now? If I stay it will be even more uncomfortable. “Yes, Sir,” I say before I walk back through the storage room to his office. 

I cannot believe I snapped at him. I cannot believe he didn't rip my head off. What had he been thinking anyway? He said he cleaned up the classroom, so I could help him but he didn’t need help. Did he just want me to sit there with him? I stop walking in the middle of the hallway and think about the possibility. I shake my head and continue on my way to Gryffindor Tower.


	25. Making Amends

Hogsmeade is extremely busy, and I’m glad Professor Snape warned me against accidently volunteering to chaperone. Unfortunately, that makes me think of his odd behavior during the staff meeting. He certainly is a confusing and complicated man. I probably won’t ever spend enough time with him to figure him out, which makes me sad. But I blame my mood on being tired. At least, that’s what I tell my friends. After having lunch with Ginny, Luna, Harry, and Ron, I go back to the school feeling drained. I run in to Professor Snape in the entrance hall, and he calls out to me a few paces after we pass each other.

“Miss Granger,” he said doubling back. “I have to collect moonstones this evening. Would you care to join me?” I’m surprised, and I must look it because he adds, “Not that I need assistance, but I just thought if you would perhaps like to learn how to locate them…is all.” He looks around the empty hall, as if he only just now realized that he’s being weird. 

I nod. “What time, Sir?” I ask him. 

“Be down here at eleven thirty. That should give us plenty of time to get to the south side of the school grounds,” he informs me. 

I have a hard time concentrating on my homework in the evening. I’m worried about tonight. What if I slip on a patch of ice and fall? That would be embarrassing. What if I forget my coat? He’ll think I did it on purpose. With that worry, I dig it out of my dresser and put it on my bed determined not to forget such an obvious thing. I have stabbing chest pains until a quarter after eleven when I leave to make my way down to the entrance hall. The chest pain is gone, but I sort of need to vomit. I should have told him no. 

“Have you come down with something?” Professor Snape asks me as I approach him. “You look feverish,” he says removing his glove to put the back of his hand on my forehead. 

“No, Sir,” I tell him. “I was just eating Fire Breathing Dragon Drops,” I lie to him. That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that. Though, I suppose it’s always him I’m blushing around. 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” he says seriously. 

“I’ll be fine. Lead the way, Sir,” I say feeling incredibly embarrassed already. I follow closely behind him as he leaves through the front entrance. It’s a frigid night, but at least it isn’t snowing. Maybe my hair will behave itself. Just this once, I beg it. There’s almost no moonlight guiding our path, so we are both forced to cast lumos charms not twenty feet from the entrance. I try to step in the impressions he’s making in the snow to distract myself. My feet are quite a bit smaller than his, and it reminds me of following my father this way before. Missing him has been difficult for me. I nearly run into the back of Professor Snape as he stops at the edge of the black lake on the back side of the castle.

“This is probably the best place to cross. The lake is the shallowest here,” he says taking a careful step forward.

“WHAT?” I nearly shout at him. My voice echoes across the white plane in front of us and a few flying creatures take off. Oh, hell no! “I’m not walking across the lake.” Trapped! Trapped under the ice! T.R.A.P.P.E.D! I’m practically asphyxiating already. 

He seems to think we are fucking chickens because he tells me, “We have to in order to get to the other side.” He looks confused. “Unless you’d rather fly, but I’ve never taken anyone with me broomless before. What if drop you or something?”

“NO! No flying,” I refuse. Had I known he was planning our demise, I would have stayed in my warm bed. Thank you very much. 

He says with exasperation, “Then we must walk. We haven’t enough time to go all the way around. We’d have to leave the school grounds to do that. It’s perfectly safe. The ice must be a foot thick this time of year. You’re just going to have to get over it. Come one.” He turns his back to me and takes several steps out onto the ice. 

Once he notices I’m not behind him, he turns back around and walks the fifteen steps back toward me. “I know this is not the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done, Miss Granger,” he says sternly.

“And I prefer not push my luck, Sir. I would really rather not drown tonight,” I rebut. 

Professor Snape folds his arms over his chest and taunts me, “What kind of a Gryffindor are you?!”

“A bad one, apparently!” I snap at him. 

At that, he drags a glove covered hand down his face in frustrated defeat. “You are not going to drown, Miss Granger. You are far more likely to go into cardiac arrest once you hit the icy water; therefore, your fear is irrational,” he tries again.

“Well,” I huff at him, “how reassuring!” A few more pairs of wings flap over us as we stand here arguing. 

He sighs at my resistance, “I’m not leaving you here, and I cannot take you back to the school because it wouldn’t leave me enough time to get to the other side before midnight.” 

I feel my lower lip trembling and the tears welling in my eyes are painfully cold. Somehow, I’ve regressed to a crying mess. I’m only barely able to contain a pathetic whining noise that usually accompanies a child’s temper tantrum. 

Professor Snape walked toward me another two steps and takes my hand. “Come on,” he says gently. 

At this point, I almost want to fall though the ice to escape this embarrassing meltdown. I slowly take a few steps with him. Once we are a few feet out onto the lake, I hear the ice crack under my feet, and I nearly jump up his arm fearing I’m going to be swallowed whole. 

“That sound is normal,” he reassures me. “Did you know there’s this thing called ice fishing? They set up shacks on the ice…actual buildings!” he mocks me. “The bravery of muggles is extraordinary. Isn’t it?” I swat at him and nearly lose my balance which causes him to laugh at me. In his defense, he tries to stifle it. “And sometimes they come out here with blades on their feet. They just sail across without a care in the world. Muggle children even do this,” he tells me knowing full well I’m a muggleborn. 

“And I suppose there’s nothing ‘Severus Snape’ is afraid of?” I ask somewhat bitterly. 

He cocks an eyebrow at me, perhaps for my tone. I can’t be sure. “I wouldn’t say ‘nothing’,” he tells me quietly. 

“What are you afraid of, then?” I say stopping in the middle of the lake. He looks back at me as my hand impedes his forward momentum. He seems unsure, so I let him off the hook. “I’m afraid of a lot of things,” I tell him as I start walking again. “You know those hairless cats? Those are scary. Oh, and dogs with blue eyes freak me out.”

“Why?” he asks seriously. 

“Their eyes look too human. It makes me suspicious of what they’re thinking,” I admit. He shakes his head at me. “And failure,” I say sadly.

“Ah, yes. Your boggart was the talk of the week in the staff room there for a while,” he says.

“Oh, gods,” I groan. “That’s embarrassing.”

He jerks on my hand, “Hey, everyone saw me in Longbottom’s grandmother’s girdle that week. It was worse for me than it was for you. At least you didn’t have to sit in there with their cackling.” 

I look at him and say with a wicked grin, “I thought you looked good in it. That hat, though!” Boy did that earn me a look. Before I know it, we are across the lake. Fucking finally! Professor Snape drops my hand, and I suddenly wish we were back out over that death trap again. Together. 

“I usually find them up this way around that ridge,” he says walking off toward the right. I hurry to follow, as I don’t want to get separated. It’s quite dark even with both of our wands lit. “Oh, good,” he says. “I was worried we might have to look further. Their appearance depends heavily on the quality of nutrients in the soil.”

“And you can see that from here?” I ask him.

He hums. “You see those sprigs coming up under that tree?” he points toward a huge tree that has a trunk as wide as Hagrid’s hut. 

“You mean the dead grass?” I question.

“No. It’s not grass,” he says. Professor Snape puts his hand out to stop me from moving closer. “No. The light disturbs the balance. Anyway, that’s nightshade. It sprouts up early, before spring comes even, but it doesn’t flower until late summer. It requires the same environmental conditions that moonstone does. So, if there’s nightshade, there’s moonstone in the ground. Most likely anyway. Put out your light,” he tells me. 

I extinguish my light along with him, and I feel him take my hand again. He leads me to the tree and tugs me down as he kneels on the ground. “Dig gently. Try not to disturb the nightshade too much,” he instructs. I move the snow in front of me around carefully until I feel a stone. I make a small pile at my feet as I gather more. “How many do you have?” he asks me after a few minutes.

“Five I think,” I tell him. 

“I have eight. That should be good enough. Here,” he says reaching out feeling for my hand. Put them in this bag.” I pick up the stones at my feet and put them in the bag before I hand it back to him. I can hear him moving about next to me, and I wonder how often he collects his own ingredients. Does he always go alone, or have other people been out here with him?

“Okay, come on,” he says feeling for my hand again. We stand up together, and he leads me several feet away slowly, cautiously. We cannot see a damn thing at this point, and I’ve lost my sense of direction. I know there’s a small cliff near us somewhere. His wand lights, and I breathe a sigh of relief that neither of us has fallen and broken our necks. 

As we approach the lake, Professor Snape tells me, “They have to be kept in the dark for another two weeks to be of any use. Moonstone is also referred to as the wishing stone.” The professor in him goes off in lecture mode, “It was actually one of the stones used in Muriel’s tiara in spite of its miniscule monetary value, as far as precious gems go anyway, and…” he trails off. “You know all of this already. Don’t you?”

I cannot help but giggle at him, and he stops abruptly, and I do run straight into him this time at the shore line of the lake. “You already knew how to find moonstone,” he says. It’s not a question. 

I gift him with a small smile and shrug. “I was trying out being a Slytherin for a change.” When he gives me a confused look I explain, “Not showing all my cards right after the deal.”

Professor Snape furrows his brow. “Well, you could use some more practice. We generally have a purpose for hiding our hand. We don’t just go around looking ignorant for the fun of it.”

Wow! He really is dense. He shakes his head at me, thinking I’m a nutter probably, and grabs me by the hand. I’m being dragged back out onto the lake before I know it. I squeal and tug hard on his hand, as I’m not ready to brave the walk again, and he stumbles backwards into me. Both of us are trying to gain purchase but cannot find it, and we fall hard onto the slippery, frozen lake surface. In the commotion, our charms falter as our wands clink on the ice, and we are in the dark.

I’m pretty sure I’ve hit my head, but it’s entirely possibly the dizziness is coming from the weight of Professor Snape lying on top of me. I cannot see him, but I can feel his hair tickling my cheeks and his warm, moist breath teases my lips. Every breath is forcing my chest against his more firmly, and we both seem to be stuck somehow. It’s silent, save for our breathing for far too long, but I can’t speak. 

“Are you okay?” he asks confirming just how close our mouths are. All I can do is hum. He struggles to his feet and summons his wand. Relighting it, he reaches down to help me up. After picking up my wand that has fallen next to me, I take his hand to get up off of my ass. 

The walk back to the castle is long and quiet, and it isn’t until we are almost at the entrance that I speak. “I think I may have sprained my wrist trying to break our fall,” I tell him. I’m sure it’s injured. It’s throbbing. I couldn’t feel it at first. It hadn’t hurt right away. 

“Poppy should be able to fix it,” he says to me. 

Once we are in the entrance I see him clearly for the first time since we left the warmth of the castle. His cheeks and nose are red from the cold. I’m sure mine are as well. “Thank you for asking if I wanted to join you,” I say. “Well, good night, Sir,” I say before I head toward the stairs. 

I hear him mumble something as I’m walking away. It sounds like good night, but I don’t want to linger in fear of making an even bigger ass of myself. 

I only see Professor Snape at meal times the entire next week, and even then he seems to avoid looking at me. Friday after not seeing him at all really since collecting the moonstone, I can’t help but cry. I know he’s avoiding me, but I don’t know what to do about it. I didn’t kiss him…again. So why is he avoiding me? The following week is almost exactly the same, and the only thing I can do is try to distract myself. I write letters to Harry, Ron, and even George. I spend an excess amount of time with Ginny and Luna, for me anyway. The only thing good that has come out of the last few weeks is my friends thinking I’m back to normal, or at least so they say. 

I can’t tell them what’s eating me alive. They wouldn’t understand. Well, Harry may understand on an obsessive level, but that’s just too weird. I miss Mr. Byron more than ever, and it feels like heartache. Not the Ron kissing Lavender heartache, but the Ron abandoning me heartache. I’m missing my mother so much I can hardly breathe when I think about her. I could always talk to her about anything. She might even be able to explain to me what I’ve done wrong. 

It isn’t until the first Monday in February that he’s sitting in the classroom when I arrive to clean up. Now that he isn’t avoiding me anymore, I’m quite pissed. My anger carries me through the week, actually. I don’t say a word to him unless he asks me a question. Thursday evening I get the impression that it is starting to bother him because he is in his classroom working for the 4th night in a row, which is odd enough by itself, but he keeps stealing glances at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The few times he talks to me, I give him short unengaged responses. That’s what he fucking gets. See how he likes it. Friday rolls around and he stops me before I leave for the night. I’m standing at the door with my cloak in my hand while he sits at his desk. 

“It just occurred to me that, perhaps you may want to go to the dance. I can do the lights myself if you’d like to go,” he says casually.

I’m not entirely sure if he’s trying to be nice or if he is trying to get out of spending the evening with me. Either way, it stabs at my heart. I cannot find the words to respond to him, and it leaves us in an awkward silence. 

“I forget that I’m not the only one capable of despising that holiday,” he says jokingly. “If you’d rather not be peer pressured into attending…” 

“I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do for the lighting,” I interrupt him wanting to move past the horrible conversation. 

“Oh,” he says brushing the hair out of his face as he leans over his desk to scribble something. I have no idea what he’s doing, and when he stand and walk to me, I look at him skeptically. “Here,” he says handing me the square of parchment. “It’s the title of an advanced charms book. It’s in the restricted section, not that that makes any sense. It has several charms which can manipulate light in it.”

I nod and accept the paper. “Thank you, Sir” I say before I leave.


	26. Snape Lights

Tuesday after tutoring a Hufflepuff, I head to the library in search of the book Professor Snape recommended. Madam Pince stops me as I try to enter the restricted section. “Professor Snape said I have unlimited access to this section because I’m part of the staff now,” I tell her.

“Did he, now?” Pince questions me. “You are still a student here.”

“…and I’m staff,” I insist.

“I’ll accept a note stating so from the Headmistress,” Pince stands her ground. 

I looked at the hawkish woman pensively. “Fine. Whatever,” I finally say as I walk away. I really wanted to get started practicing my charms, so I don’t make a fool of myself. It will have to wait a little while longer, I guess. 

“That’s no way to talk to someone, young lady,” Pince whispers loudly at my retreating form. 

I’ve never used the staff room aside from the one meeting, so I’m hesitant to just stroll in. It would be silly, however, to pass it on my way to McGonagall’s office if she’s in the staff room. I take a deep breath before opening the door and walking through it. For some reason, I expect everyone to stop what they are doing and gawk at me, but no one even looks my way aside from Professor Snape who is sitting at one of the tables with a copy of the paper in his hand and a cup of tea in front of him. 

“Come to join the raging party?” he asks sarcastically. 

Laughing as I look over at Professor Flitwick who has fallen asleep in a chair by the fire, I say, “I was looking for the headmistress, actually.”

“Is something wrong?” he inquires setting the paper down.

“No. Well, it’s just that Madam Pince insists I have a note from her that says I’m staff. I was trying to get that book you recommended,” I explain. 

The legs of his chair scraped across the ground as he pushed himself back from the table to stand. “There’s no need for that. That’s just asinine,” he says walking toward me. “Come on,” he says walking past me through the door. 

I walk beside Professor Snape to the library, which earns me a few sympathetic looks. If only they knew. “Sir, I didn’t intend to make this your problem. I can just go see the Headmistress. Really,” I say, sorry I’ve interrupted his day. He mumbles something that sounds oddly like ‘ridiculous’. Once inside, I walk behind him up to Madam Pince.

“Irma,” Professor Snape says, “Why have you refused Miss Granger entrance into the restricted section?”

“OH!” she says surprised to see him. “Good afternoon, Professor. She’s a student without a note. That’s why.” She has the nerve to glare at me after smiling at him. 

“Miss Granger is simply trying to attain a book to assist her in fulfilling her duty as a member of the staff to create the lighting for the Valentine’s Dance. Her status as a staff member is implicit. Did you not see her at the staff meeting?” he asked calmly. 

Madam Pince has turned a grotesque shade of pink. Well the pink is fine, but up against her grayish skin, it looks ghastly. “She never bothered to mention that. She simply walked up as is she owned the place and demanded I allow her in. She was rather rude about it,” she exaggerates. 

Professor Snape responds, “Well, I’ll be sure to make a note of that in her employment record.” Madam Pince nearly huffs as Professor Snape walked away from her toward the restricted section.

Trying to contain a grin at the look on Pince’s face, I quickly go after Professor Snape. We stop when we come to a shelf near the back. He drags the ladder over a few feet before climbing up it. Quickly locating the charms book for me, he says, “There are some charms in this book which can easily be manipulated to create dozens of shapes, sizes, and colors of lights.” He hands me the book and grabs another off the shelf next to us almost at random. 

I stay close by him as he heads back to the main section of the library. He grabs another book a shelf we pass by and sets the two he has in my hands on top of the other one. “She hates it when we take more than one at a time,” he tells me with an amused smirk that makes me turn pink. I can only hope I wear it better than Pince. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

I spend Wednesday and Thursday evening practicing my light manipulation charms after I’ve finished with my homework. I ask Ginny if I can practice in her room, as I can get it much darker in there than in the dorm. She agrees and is quite impressed with the charms I have learn. 

“How are things going working for Snape?” she asks me.

I tell her, “Fine. I hardly see him.”

“He’s changed a bit. Hasn’t he?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he seems…less pissed off now. Like, remember how he’d be a git when no one did anything to provoke him? He hasn’t been like that this year. I hadn’t even realized it until last week when he nearly lost his shit over Avery leaving his jar of exploding juice next to a simmering cauldron. But to be fair, he could have blown us all up!” she tells me.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” I tell her. Wanting to change the subject, I ask what she plans on wearing to the dance. 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Professor Snape is at his desk Friday evening when I come to clean. He tells me the hospital wing has a rather large list of potions that need to be restocked, and it will take the both of us a few hours. I follow him back through that maze of a storage room and see that he has already seat up five cauldrons on one side of the room, and three on the counter by the sink. The workspace is very crowded. 

“Um, Sir, where are we supposed to prepare the ingredients? There’s hardly an inch of free counter space,” I point out.

“I hadn’t gotten that far yet. We’ll be cramped, but at least we won’t have to more than a few steps to reach each one,” he reasons as he conjures a tall table in the center of the room. There are approximately two feet of space between it and each of the counters, as well as the door. Thank gods the door opens outwards. It wouldn’t if this hadn’t been a closet to begin with. 

He grabs an inventory sheet from the infirmary and hands it to me. “Been a brutal quidditch season. She went through seven jars of healing paste already.”

“I see that,” I comment. “Where shall I start?”

“Those two,” he pointed to the one of the end of the workstation counter, “are both healing paste. The one in the middle is a pepper-up potion, the next is a sleeping draught, and that one is a calming draught. Those three are wound-cleaning potion, cough potion, and an invigoration draught. I don’t usually have more than four or five going at a time, so I’m afraid it’s going to get rather muggy in here,” he tells her. “I think it might just be best if one of us mans the potions and the other prepares the ingredients. We’re less likely to have an accident that way. Which would you prefer to do?”

I cannot believe he’s letting me choose. I don’t know what I should choose either. Either I’ll be responsible for stirring and keeping track of them all, or I’ll be responsible for preparing an ungodly amount of ingredients for a meticulous potioneer who’s going to be scrutinizing everything I hand him. “I’ll look over the potions,” I tell him. 

He nods and tells me, “I’ve marked where I’ve left off with each one. They all have stasis charms on them at the moment. Perhaps start with that one, and we can work our way around the room.”

This is insane, I tell myself, but everything goes pretty smoothly for the first hour. At one point, I need him to add the leech juice to the healing pastes because I can’t walk away from the sleeping draught. If it boils, it will be ruined. I’m not expecting it when Professor Snape squeezes by me, hands on my waist, body moving against mine. Breathe, I remind myself. He has to do it again to get out as well, but he stops first. He places his hand on my lower back as he leans over to looking into the cauldron I’m stirring. It’s starting to get excessively hot in here with five of the eight cauldrons boiling. A fact I’m lucky for, as it may excuse the flushed cheeks. Once he is on the other side of the table, I remove my sweater, and I try not to watch as Professor Snape takes his outer robes off too. “Four minced frog livers,” I say trying to focus on the potion in front of me. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, I remind myself. Professor Snape in a wet shirt in Hagrid’s hut. It took me quite a while to get that out of my head. 

“I already have them ready,” he says as he comes to stand next to me. He’s rolled his sleeves up, and when he leans over to add the livers to the sleeping draught, I see something that I had managed to not think about in months. My scar is faded, but it stands out against his dark mark. I feel ill looking at it. 

Professor Snape must have noticed because he comments, “I don’t understand why you were so upset. It’s not like I didn’t already have something hideous there.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You didn’t need another horrible thing to look at.”

“That’s different,” he argues. “That awful thing was my choice.”

“And that,” I say pointing to my scar on his arm, “should have been mine.” I shake my head and grab the beetle eyes off of the table behind me. “She didn’t give me a choice in what she did to my body, and neither did you.” 

The only sound in the room is the occasionally pop of a bubble in one of the cauldrons. Nearly an entire minutes passes before he speaks “I never thought of it that way,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

I look at him in disbelief. I never imagined he would apologize to me for anything, let alone this. The next hour goes by quietly. Having prepared all of the ingredients, he focuses on the five potions on the workstation and leaves me with the three on the counter by the sink. When all my cauldron need is to simmer for the remainder of their process, I leave. 

~~~~~~~~~ 

I spend my weekend getting ahead of my homework. While I don’t know if I necessarily feel betting now that he’s apologized to me, I know I would have been even more upset had he continued to deny my right to be upset. The week goes by easily with both my classes and Professor Snape. He grades quizzes on Tuesday and Wednesday while I work. Friday before I leave for the weekend he tells me I need to be in the great hall at 6:30 p.m. with the rest of the staff on Sunday, the day of the dance.

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It’s Valentine’s Day. I’ve never had anyone to celebrate Valentine’s Day with, and I wouldn’t today even if I weren’t working. Really, I ought to feel lucky. There is no one I’d rather spend today with than Professor Snape. I know I’ll get to see him, but I worry that we’ll be separated to cover a wider area of the hall. I throw on my most comfortable pair of dark jeans and a plain shirt. Grabbing my hoodie, I head down the stairs pulling it over my head as I make my way into the common room. 

“Hermione, you look…nice,” says Harry. 

Ginny laughs. “I forgot to tell you. Hermione is going to be doing the lights for the dance,” she tells him.

“Oooh! You may want to send Ron a letter, and let him know that. I think he expected you to ask him to go with you,” Harry tells me. 

Really? Even if I hadn’t been assigned a job, I wouldn’t have asked him, nor would I have said yes if he asked me. I wouldn’t even be going. “Right. Okay. Well, I have to go because I need to get there early.” I leave and head down to the great hall hoping this night will be over as quickly as possible. Professor Snape is standing by the table at the front of the room where trays of finger foods and beverages are popping up, evidence the house elves are hard at work. McGonagall is standing next to him saying something I cannot hear. 

“Miss Granger,” she greets me as I walk up to the pair of them. 

I smile at her, but before I can say anything, Professor Snape says, “You may want to get yourself a beverage and something to eat before we head upstairs.”

Upstairs? “Yes, Sir,” I respond. I just ate dinner, so I’m not hungry. I grab a bottle of water and shrink it down small enough to fit in the pocket of my hoodie. After considering it, I grab anther in just in case. He did say ‘we’ didn’t he? “Sir, what did you mean by upstairs?” I ask as I come back to where he is standing. McGonagall has turned her attention elsewhere. 

“We have to cast the charms down from above because of the design of the ceiling,” he explains and looks at me as if he cannot believe I did not know this. “Are you practicing being a Slytherin again?”

He’s seriously asking. “No, Sir,” I tell him. There isn’t that much written about the ceiling in Hogwarts: A History. 

“Oh,” he says. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. There’s a door over here,” he says walking toward the wall on the right side of where the head table usually is. He grabs the tapestry of the four houses of Hogwarts and pulls it forward motioning for me to step behind it. I peak around and, sure enough, there is a door behind it. It amazes me that in all my years of attending three meals a day in this room, there is something in it I have not seen. 

I do not understand why he has cast a lumos charm until I’m through the door and standing in the darkness. I light my wand as well and see that I am in front of a spiral stairwell that leads at least three stories upward. No wonder the sky has so much depth above us while we’re eating. This school, my home, is so full of mystery and magic, I dread the thought of having to leave it. 

“After you,” he says.

I climb the stairs and wish I wasn’t in front of him. Three stories is a long way to feel self conscious about him being behind me. Approaching the top, I can make out a clearing, but I’m surprised to see that it is a platform. The small balcony is four feet wide by seven feet long at most. Metal railings hug the sides, and looking out over it, I can see all the beams the ceiling is supported by. It isn’t until I step onto it that I see the bubble, for lack of a better word, that creates a dome over the center of the ceiling in the great hall. 

“That is the ceiling under which you have eaten for the last several years. That barrier is sort of like a canvas. What we’re going to do is cast our charms at it, and they will appear inside of it. It’s almost like a projector,” he explains.

I look at it in awe. It reaches a few feet above our heads and curves down just missing the platform we’re standing on. While the inside of it is brightly shining down on the room below us, we are left in the shadows among the rafters. I watch as he flicks his wand at the dome, and his charm is absorbed into it. Red fireworks go off within. I’m sure it must look better from down stairs, but it is incredible. 

“Go ahead. Try it,” he tells me.

Copying him, I send a charm in its direction. A field of white daisies appear twinkling and shining brightly. 

He says. “That’s all there is to it. We just have to change it up every once in a while. Quite an easy job, actually. We don’t have to deal with anyone down there at least.” Without saying the spell, he puts out his light. 

I walk up to the edge of the platform and sit down with my feet dangling down under the lower bar of the railing while my arms rest on the second. I’m surprised when Professor Snape joins me on the ground, but I probably shouldn’t be. There isn’t anywhere better to sit. I suppose we could have conjured chairs, but then we wouldn’t be able to look down on those below us as easily. I put out my light to be able to see more clearly.

“Have there been many dances over the years, Professor?” I ask knowing this is only the third while I’ve been here. Two of the three have been this year under McGonagall as Headmistress. 

“No. Not many. Perhaps a dozen since I started teaching. I usually end up on patrol,” he tells me conversationally. I giggle, and he asks, “What?”

I say, “I imagine you broke up quite a few couples then.”

“Ah. Yes, I have. The smart ones go to the upper floors. There, they’re most likely to be caught by Filch. The rest of the staff is always down here,” he informs me. “You’d think it would be common sense not to go twenty feet from the great hall, but apparently sense isn’t that common.”

Looking down below my swinging feet, I see the head girls and boys come in along with the prefects. The last of the decorations are being placed, and the band is almost done setting up; they are testing their amplifying charm. “It’s dark up here,” I comment. 

“It’s the dome. The inside of it is a reflective surface, so the light doesn’t come through it even though we can see it. It’s like someone pointing a flashlight at you from within a movie screen. You can see it on the surface, but the light from it doesn’t project out into the room. Here,” he says motioning to the stairway we came through. A single candle appears on the back of the stairwell. It isn’t much light, but I can make out his silhouette as he is between me and the stairs. 

As soon as the students start piling in, the band begins to play. The first song is rather upbeat. We can definitely hear it, but it isn’t deafening like it would be if we were down stairs. Professor Snape cast the first charm on the dome, and the light flickers like a disco ball, glinting and twirling around the hall. From here, it looks like we are sitting among the stars, only they’re moving.

Several songs go by, and we take turns changing up the lighting. Neither of us has said much, and I’m worried the rest of the night is going to go by this way. I don’t want to be bad company. “When is the dance over?” I ask Professor Snape.

He laughs lightly. “In another three and half hours, I’m afraid. Anxious to get out of here already?” he asks me. When I don’t reply he leans back and grabs something in his coat that he discarded before he sat down. “Here,” he says handing me a bottle. 

Once I get a better look at it, I see that it is a flask. I look over at him questioningly, but I cannot tell anything his silhouette. Why not, I ask myself. The dynamics of our relationship of student and teacher have changed, but I don’t think I was completely aware of it occurring. I unscrew the lid and take a drink. Holy Mother of Merlin, that burns! I fight hard not to gag. The last thing I want is for him to laugh at me. I wipe the saliva from the corners of my mouth. That bit the pools around your tongue when your body is getting ready to vomit. I hand him back the flask, and he takes it without looking at me. 

“Are you regretting you aren’t with your friends? I think I can handle this if you would prefer to leave,” he tells me.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” I ask him. 

Professor Snape turns to me and replies, “Of course not.” He turns back to the dome in front of us and takes a drink out of the canister before setting it down between us. Several more songs play, and we both take a few more drinks.

I lean forward and cross my arms on the bar in front of my. I lay my head on my forearms and look at him. Both a twinge of sadness and contentment settle upon me. I prefer his company above my friends. Looking at the man next to me, I feel my chest tighten. I just…want him. I want him to understand me. I want him to be my friend. I want him to be more than that. While I feel more comfortable knowing that, I also feel that it is hopeless. 

“What?” he asks, apparently having noticed I’ve been staring at him.

“Sometime I feel lost now that everything is over,” I say quietly. “The war I mean. It was such a big part of our lives. Without all the chaos, what’s left? It just feels like this…empty space.” He takes another drink and hands it to me. “Do you ever feel that way?”

I can barely make out his nod. “Sometimes,” he admits. There is a long stretch of silence. I don’t want to ask him anything else because I know his life is none of my business. Wondering what he is thinking is nearly driving me mad. “You asked me what I’m afraid of,” he brings up the evening in the forest. “I’m afraid of making a mistake. Sometimes I have this dream where I’m brewing in the dungeon, and I use the wrong cauldron or put in the wrong ingredient and…boom. The whole school is nothing more than a pile of rubble. I look for people who might still be alive in the debris, but...they’re all gone.”

That’s awful. He must still being carrying around an extraordinary amount of guilt. “Well, there’s no way you’d survive that if no one else did. ‘Your fear is irrational’, Professor,” I parrot his mockery while a smile, not that he can see it. 

“How do you do that?” he asks me.

“What?”

“Recall anything and everything you’ve ever hear or read?” he elaborates. 

His question cuts me. I sit up straight and bring my hands to my lap. He’s always hated that about me. I had almost forgotten about that for a few months. 

“It wasn’t an insult,” he tells me. 

I take another drink out of the flask and set it back down between us. We talk for quite a while about potions theory, which I brought up to ease the uncomfortable silence. Eventually we reach the two and a half hour mark, and I’m a bit tipsy. I have no idea if he is or not. My ass hurts from sitting here so long. I take off my hoodie and toss it up toward the wall. Scooting back toward the middle of the platform, I lay down using my hoodie as a pillow and put my hands under my head. At some point, he joins me, and we lay there like kids looking up at the stars, only they are out above our feet. “This is the most interesting Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had,” I confess.

“How so?” he questions disbelievingly. 

“Well, I’m up in the rafters of the great hall, which I didn’t even know existed because of the faux ceiling, and I’m drinking moonshine with the Professor Snape,” I laugh.

“Moonshine?” he laughs at me. “Where’d you even learn that? Your father?”

I swat at him, hitting him lightly in the gut with the back of my hand. “Judging by the taste of that stuff, I figured it had to be.”

“It’s whiskey,” he admonishes. “And not that sugary cinnamon garbage you kids like to sneak into the school.”

I feign outrage, “I’ve never sneaked fire whiskey into the school!”

“Those kids like to sneak into the school, then,” he corrects himself.

“That’s better,” I tell him. I hear him laugh at me. The song changes to a slow beat, and I cast a charm to make royal blue snowflake lights that float down from the top of the dome. “Snape lights,” I announce proudly.

“Snape lights? Why? Because I’m…cold?” he asks sounding almost disappointed.

I correct him, “Because you’re unique.”

Professor Snape turns his head toward me for a few seconds before looking back at the dome. He mutters a charm, and the blue flakes grow smaller, transitioning from blue to green, and then to yellow before finally settling on gold. Gold rain is coming down inside the dome. It looks like it’s raining champagne. “That’s beautiful,” I say.

Professor Snape replies quietly, “Granger lights.”

It’s a very good thing we are in the dark because I’m almost certain I’m a new shade of red. The whiskey is making it hard for me to sort out my confusion. “Professor?”

“You do know that I’m not your professor anymore,” he reminds me.

“What shall I call you then? Mr. Byron?” It’s out of my mouth before I consider how awkward it will feel afterward.

After a minute of silence he says, “I think I was hoping we’d never have to discuss that.”

“Never?”

“Well, never may have been an exaggeration.”

“I knew it was you. I knew weeks before you found out,” I confess.

He props himself up with one elbow and looks down at me. His head is blocking the light from the candle, and it’s creating a white lining around him. “How is that even possible?”

I explain quietly, “I saw the owl take you one of my letters while you were with Hagrid.” 

“And you kept writing me anyway?” he asks sounding genuinely surprised. 

“Of course I did,” I say. He’s not saying anything, and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. I wish I could see his face. I don’t know what to say to him now. Perhaps I never should have told him that. Perhaps he was right to never want to talk about it. I squeeze my eyes tightly trying to hold back the emotion that is threatening to come out, but the feathery touch of hair on my cheek startles me. Professor Snape’s lips are on mine, moving against them gently gliding in a sweet caress that would have swept me off my feet had I been standing.

Reaching up, I touch his face, his jaw flexing under my hand. My stomach flutters upon feeling his hand come to rest on it. His fingers curl inward against the fabric of my shirt, tickling me. My lips part slightly, and his tongue comes out to taste my bottom lip shyly. Wanting to welcome him, I brush my tongue against his. It somehow seems darker suddenly, and the noise below us grows louder. He pulls away from me, and I realize we’ve let the lights go about completely. 

I cannot see anything, but I feel him move. Silver fireworks, the kind that explode outward and then fall like the branches of a willow tree fill the dome. Professor Snape turns back to me, his lips almost touching mine. “Oops,” he nearly laughs. 

I lift my head up to bring his lips back to me, and his weight shifts into my side while his hand that isn’t holding him up comes to rest at the base of my neck. A slow song is playing, and our tongues join the dancing couples beneath us. I have no doubt several minutes have passed when he slowly pulls away from me again, but it is too soon. I want more of him. I want so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you've all been waiting forever for this one, so I hope you enjoyed it.


	27. The Confrontation

The band announces it’s the last song of the evening, and Professor Snape casts a charm that makes the lights look like floating stars and places a stasis on it. He stands and reaches down to me. “Come on,” he says. I take his hand and allow him to help me up. “We can head down now,” he informs me. I grab my sweater and put it on as we approach the stairs. He motions for me to go first, which I do. Descending the stairs, I wonder if there will be an awkward moment once we reach the bottom. Worried that will happen and potentially ruin what just occurred between us, I open the door immediately and am accosted by the volume at which the band is playing. 

Professor Snape is close behind me, and I’m reluctant to part ways. “Oh, Severus! There you are,” shouts Professor Sprout. “Filius drank too much punch, and we could use another hand clearing everyone out in a moment.”

I turn to ask him if he’d like help, but Harry appears at my side with Ginny. He seems to have had too much of the punch as well, as he’s yammering on about everything under the sun. The band, his job, my job, Ron… Ginny eventually drags him away, but Professor Snape has already walked off somewhere. With no other reason to stick around, I leave and head off to take a shower. I’m approaching the stairs when I hear my name being called.

“Miss Granger,” Professor Snape says walking up to me quickly. He stands there looking at me as if he is waiting for me to say something, which is odd because he is the one who stopped me. “There’s a staff meeting at four tomorrow. Remind me tomorrow evening, and I’ll make you a copy of the schedule.” I nod, and he turns around and walks away from me. 

Once I’ve changed for bed, I write a letter to Ron explaining to him that I had to work, and that I also had no interest in attending the Valentine’s Dance. I don’t comment on our lack of a relationship as I don’t think it’s necessary. We aren’t dating. Surely, he knows that. I hope he does, anyway. I struggle to fall asleep because the girls in my dorm are still giddy form their romantic evenings, and I wish I had my own room. The urge to touch myself is strong, relentless as I think about how he kissed me. I’m surprised he initiated it and hope it was not just because we had been drinking. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

I arrive early for the staff meeting and linger around the refreshment table pouring myself a cup of tea the next afternoon. I’m not sure where I should sit. McGonagall has transfigured a large round table in the center of the room with chairs all around it. I sit on the side closest to the door, and am anxious to know if Professor Snape will sit next to me if the seats by me aren’t taken before he gets here. One by one, the staff members each take their seats, and as Professor McGonagall quiets the chatter, Professor Snape slips in the room and seats himself next to me. 

“I would like to thank you all for your hard work in making last night a successful evening. The decorations were wonder, and I must say, we’ve never had a more spectacular light show,” McGonagall says looking at us pointedly. 

I cross my legs and accidentally bump into Professor Snape’s shin. I don’t remove my leg, however. I leave it against his him to see what he does. “I’m proud to inform you that since we’ve been back form break, the amount of incidents between students in different houses has decreased by nearly twenty percent. Therefore, I have decided we will schedule the event for the next school year as well…” McGonagall continues on. 

I fight the urge to look down when I feel something touch my hand. Professor Snape fingers are brushing against mine, but he looks to be paying attention to the Headmistress. “Hogsmeade chaperones…anyone has any ideas on an activity to build inter-house relationships for the last part of the school year…” I decide without any uncertainty that I like him touching me. I want him touching me. The slightest touch with the back of his fingers can make my pulse pound and my breathing shallow, apparently. I’m relieved that Professor Snape doesn’t want to pretend like nothing happened between us. I don’t think I’d be able to do that. He pulls his hand away when a paper comes to him with the breakdown of house points awarded so far this term on it. I wasn’t even aware they tracked that. The meeting eventually comes to an end, and Professor Snape leaves as quickly as he arrived. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

I visit Ginny in her room before dinner. “So did you have a good time with Harry last night? He seemed pretty inebriated,” I laugh. 

Ginny sets down her hair brush. “Yeah. We had a lot of fun. I think I was a bit tipsy myself. Don’t know who spiked the punch, but you should have seen it. Professor Flitwick was doing all kinds of strange dance moves that I’ve never seen before. I heard Hooch had to take him back to his rooms. Apparently he had five or so glasses of it before any of them figured it out,” she tells me. “How was your night?” she ask sounding more serious than I would have expected.

Wanting to appear casual, I say, “It was okay. I could have had a worse job. It’s too bad I didn’t get to see Flitwick drunk, though.” 

Ginny nods at my answer. “Hermione…I have to ask because of how you’ve been acting lately and…well.... Are you seeing someone?”

I reply in confusion, “How am I acting?”

“You know. Distracted. Preoccupied,” she tells me. “I thought it was because you were having a hard time adjusting at first, but it dawned on me that it might be for another reason.” Ginny laughs. “I remember picking at my food a lot over the years while crushing on Harry.”

“Well, I’m not seeing anyone, and I’m adjusting just fine,” I tell her defensively. I really don’t want to deal with this again. The last thing I need is for her to send McGonagall poking around. That would be bad.

Ginny sighed. “You do know you can talk to me about anything. Right?” she asks me. 

Something is up, and I know it. “What is this all about Ginny?” I ask her. 

She doesn’t answer right away. “I saw you, Hermione.” She looks off to the side, apparently not comfortable talking to me about whatever this is. “I saw you with him…”

It’s not possible she saw me with Professor Snape. It’s not. “Look. I don’t know what you think you saw, but I don’t know who ‘him’ is and, it wasn’t me.”

She shakes her head appearing offended now. “Hermione, I went to check on you last night to make sure you were okay. McGonagall told me where to you were. I saw you with him. I saw him kissing you.” 

I groan and rub my face. “Gods. I’m sorry, Gin. It’s not what you think,” I tell her. There’s no way out of this. Is there? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“What is it then?” Ginny looks at me with an expression I cannot read. My best guess would be exasperated disbelief. 

“That’s never happened before. I mean…that was the first…” I say. I’m lying, but the first time doesn’t count. Not really. “We were drinking whiskey,” I tell her throwing my hands out beside me as if that will explain everything. 

Her eyebrows shoot up at that. “You were drinking whiskey with Snape?” she asks as if she is questioning my sanity. “So you have no intention of…kissing him again?”

I stare at her blankly. Fuck. “Well, I…” 

“Hermione Granger! You can’t go around making out with your…Snape! He’ll be fired if anyone else finds out,” she says. “Not to mention what everyone will say about you.”

“So you’re not going to tell anyone, then?” I ask. 

“No one would believe me if I did,” she huffs. “So you have thing for Snape.” She states shaking her head. “At first I thought he’d done something to you, but it seemed like you were enjoying it. You having a crush on one of your teachers, I can imagine easily. Snape making a pass at a student, though. I can’t even wrap my mind around it.”

“I’m not his student anymore,” I remind her firmly.

Ginny looks at me in awe. “Is this why you tested out of his class and took that job assisting him?”

I shake my head. “NO! No. That’s not what happened. I didn’t know it was a job assisting him. He didn’t even want to say yes, but McGonagall said if I tested out of his class, I could have the job.”

Ginny crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against her headboard. “How did this happen?” When I made a pained face, she insisted, “Hermione, come on. You can’t expect me to not want to know how you got Snape to…be interesting in anything besides making first years cry.”

Unfortunately, the truth is the least ridiculous thing I can come up with. “Have you heard of the Survivors of War Organization?” I ask her.

She nods. “George said mum made him join, but he quit as soon as she got off his back.”

I sigh not wanting to tell her about this. What choice do I have, though? “McGonagall only let me come back to school if I agreed to join.” Uh. The feeling in my stomach makes me realize I am more ashamed of that fact that I thought I was when no one knew about it.

“Okay. What does that have to do with Snape?” she asks looking far too interested. 

“She made him join it as well. Somehow, we ended up being paired together. Neither of us knew it at first. I found out long before he did. When he found out, he stopped writing to me,” I explain to her. 

Her mouth is hanging open. “You’re kidding. So that’s when you…started…liking him?”

I think about my answer for a moment as I’m not sure. “I think so. I think it sort of happened over a long period of time. I didn’t just wake up one day, and decide that’s what my life was missing.”

“So how did you figure out you both felt the same way?” she asked. “I mean, I can’t imagine him even being capable of flirting. Wait. Did he kiss you, or did you kiss him first?” 

I frown at that question. I’m not even sure myself. He was perfectly capable of flirting with me during the staff meeting. She does not need to know that, however. “Well, you said yourself he’s been different this year,” I shrug. “He’s been nice to me, actually. He kissed me. Aside from that, I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

“Oh my god. Are you going to sleep with him?” Ginny asked wide-eyed. The girl looks as if she is on the edge of having an epiphany. 

“It was one kiss. That’s it. I don’t sleep with everyone who kisses me,” I make a jab at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“Fine. I promise,” she grumbles. “If ever the time comes, let me tell my brother, and I’ll keep my trap shut.”

I laugh at her.


	28. Burning Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I'm going to have to take a small break from this fic because I don't want to ruin it with bad chapters. Life is getting in the way, and this story somehow seems to be keeping me from focusing on the other two i have going. I keep thinking I shouldn't write a new chapter in one of the others until i finish the next chapter in this one...and now nothing is getting posted. :( This chapter is so short, yet it took me two weeks. I think that means it's time for a break for me. I am excited to focus on the others for now, so I hope you are reading those as well.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed to see that Professor Snape is not in the classroom when I get there to clean up. I decide to be relived not to have to deal with any awkwardness while I’m working. After cleaning, I mark the two stacks of papers on his desk and wonder how he’s put up with the lack of effort by his students for so long. It turns out he’s more patient that anyone ever gives him credit for. 

I’m not sure where we go from here. It’s not like we can go on a date. Right? How are we ever going to be alone together? How can this possibly work? Sure we’re alone while I’m working sometimes, but he can’t pay me to see him. I formulate the fantastic plan to do absolutely nothing. I’ll let him take the lead. It’s so unlike me to let someone else lead, but what choice do I have? It’s not like I can invite him to eat with me at the Gryffindor table like we were twelve. I wonder what he was like when he was twelve. Would we have gotten along? 

“Is something the matter?” Professor Snape’s voice asks somewhere behind me.

“Good god!” I jerk around completely startled. “You scared me,” I say. 

“I see that,” he says with a frown. “You look worried,” he comments.

I slump against his chair while he sits on the edge of his desk with his hands folded in front of him. “I was just thinking…”

“About?” he presses me.

“Erm, did you make me a copy of the staff meeting schedule?” I ask not wanting to tell him I was thinking about him.

He nods. “Are you finished working for the evening?” I tell him I am almost finished, and he stands up. “Come to my office when you’re done.” 

About fifteen minutes later I walk in through the open door to his office and shut it behind me. Professor Snape stands up from his desk and walks over to a cabinet on the left side of the room, where he pulls out a piece of parchment. With a quick copying charm, he makes a duplicate for me. 

“Here,” he says. “Tomorrow and Wednesday I need you to tutor a few students. I have to do rounds for Flitwick this evening. Shall I walk you back to your room?” he asks as he straightens the papers on the coffee table and stands up. 

I think about how Ginny has already caught us and think better of it. “No. I can manage,” I tell him. “Good night, Professor.”

He shakes his head at me and tries to hide a small smile. “Good night, Miss Granger,” he says. 

I leave and walk as quickly as I can to get back to Gryffindor tower. It’s nearly curfew, and I’d rather not have to ask Professor Snape for a note saying that I was late because I was working. I’m almost out of the dungeons when a suit of armor comes clambering out at me, knocking me to the ground. Peeves is laughing above me, telling me I should watch where I’m going. 

“Peeves, get out of my dungeons!” Professor Snape hollers at him as he approaches us. “Are you alright?” he asks as he extends a hand down to me. 

I take his hand, and say, “Yeah. I think.” My hands are shaking and my heart is still pounding from the fright he gave me. Apparently, I’m still not over my skittishness. Being easily rattled is not something I’m proud of. 

“Perhaps you should have a calming draught,” he suggests.

“That’s not necessary,” I tell him, but he insists, and I follow him back to his office. 

“Sit,” he says gesturing to the love seat on the side of the room. When he comes back over to me, he sits close, our legs touching, as he holds a small phial up to my lips. I humor him and let him give me the potion even though it seems odd for him to do such a thing. “Better?” he asks as I relax back into the couch. 

“Yes. Thank you, Sir,” I say. When I look over at him, he quickly closes the distance between us to kiss me. My stomach flutters as his hand migrates to my thigh. His tongue is velvet, rich with the promise of tomorrow. 

As the kiss becomes more heated, his hand travels up my leg to my side. I have to fight the urge to climb into his lap. Actually, it feels like a burning need. Does he feel it too? Maybe he wants me in his lap. Perhaps if I give him a hint that I want more, he’ll put my mind and body at ease. Before I can decide, he breaks the kiss. He looks a little flush, and it makes me want him even more. 

“I should take you back,” he says. 

I agree sadly, “Okay.” I stand and walk with him to the door, but he stops me as I reach for the handle.

“Do you have plans Saturday evening?” he asks. I shake my head. “I have to collect hemlock if you’d like to join me.”

Oh. That isn’t quite what I was expecting, but I suppose it’s as close to a date as we can get. And we’ll be alone. “Yeah. That sounds good. What time?” I ask him. 

“Ten,” he answers. I nod and he leans forward to kiss me again. It surprises me to find myself against the door with his hand on the back of my neck. Unable to help myself, I step forward into him wanting to be up against him and not a huge slab of wood. I almost laugh at that though, ruining the moment, but I don’t. 

Professor Snape steps away quickly, and while I’m disappointed he stopped kissing me, I’m no longer questioning that he wants more from me as well. After a few moments to compose ourselves, he opens the door for me, and I walk through it. Together, we walk all the way to Gryffindor tower in near silence. We say a quick goodbye, and I hurry off to bed and pull the drapes closed around me. 

With my hand down my knickers, I rub myself thinking about feeling Professor Snape’s erection on my hip. Coming down from my release, I wonder if he is going to do the same later when he returns to his rooms.


End file.
